The Night of the Extravaganza of Death
by California gal
Summary: An extraordinary feat to save Artie's life puts Jim in the sights of a madman-and may cost Artie his life after all!
1. Chapter 1

**THE NIGHT OF THE EXTRAVAGANZA OF DEATH**

_**Chapter One**_

Desperation is sometimes as powerful an inspirer as genius.  
— Benjamin Disraeli (1804-1881), British parliamentarian

"Five minutes, West! You've got five minutes!"

Jim West muttered a soft but heartfelt and furious curse as he stepped back from the window, lowering the rifle he had grabbed from the rack on the wall. "Stan, I can't get a clear shot. The way he's holding Artie around the neck, there's just not enough of him showing. I need to be at an angle."

Sheriff Stan Blaine shook his head. "We might have to give in, Jim."

"No! I know Wes Watson. He'll renege and take Artie with him… then kill him. And try to kill us!"

A half hour ago the two agents had been relaxing in the sheriff's office, discussing the case the three of them had just concluded successfully, rounding up a pair of counterfeiters who had been using Blaine's Kansas town as a base of operations. Artemus had remembered that he wanted to cash a draft before they headed back to the Wanderer, and excused himself to cross the street to the bank directly opposite. Just a few minutes later, a couple of shots had resounded from within that bank.

When West and Blaine dashed outside, they had been greeted with more gunfire that drove them back inside the jail building. A woman customer managed to escape from the bank during the melee, and from her they learned that one Wes Watson and another man had attempted to rob the bank—in Artemus's Gordon's presence. Gordon had used the name "Watson" in speaking to the robbers, and from the description the witness offered, Jim realized the identity of the man. She related that Mr. Gordon had attempted to foil the robbery. According to the woman, apparently Artie had wounded or killed Watson's partner, taking him out of the action but Watson then got the drop on the agent. During those moments she had been able to dash out the front door.

The Secret Service agents knew Watson well, and he knew them, from previous encounters. He soon was yelling an ultimatum, demanding safe passage out of town in exchange for the lives of the people remaining in the bank, including Gordon. The two lawmen in the jail had kept him talking while trying to come up with a way to capture him without causing injury to the hostages.

Planning was difficult because, as Blaine explained, the front door was the only entrance to the bank. A rear door was always securely locked and barred from the inside and the windows in the back, like those in the front, were barred. The sheriff also pointed out that because of the arrangement of the tellers' cages in the bank, a clear view of the customers and the criminals was doubtful through any rear windows. The partitions that created the tellers' area were tall.

Finally, a short while ago, Watson had emerged from the bank with Artemus Gordon squarely in front of him, one arm around Artie's neck while holding a pistol muzzle against his head with his other hand. Watson knew that the moment he mounted his nearby horse, he would be an open target. He was demanding that West and Blaine come outside and throw their guns into the street before he would allow Gordon to go free.

"Stan," Jim said, leaning his head close to the side of one of the jail's front windows and peering out, "the hotel next door… it has a front balcony on the second floor."

"Yeah. What are you thinking?"

"I've got to get a better angle. Keep Watson talking."

Without waiting for the sheriff to answer, Jim headed for the jail's back door, exited through it to the barren lot behind the buildings, then raced to the small hotel next door. Finding the hotel's rear door thankfully unlocked—so that he did not have to waste time with the picklock—he entered and ascended the back stairs several at a time, then sprinted down the hallway toward the front of the building to the tall French doors that opened to the small balcony.

He paused there, opening the door just wide enough to peer out, and his heart sank. _I didn't notice the bank's sign!_ It was a large one, suspended from a projecting pole at the corner of the bank's building—and it shielded the view of all but the legs of the two men standing close together in front of the building. _If I shoot Watson in the leg, he can still pull the trigger on Artie!_

Not enough time remained to formulate another plan. One advantage to the sign was that it would also block him from Watson's view once he was on the veranda. Jim stepped through the door and moved to the railing. Without hesitation, he threw his legs over the railing, clutching the rifle firmly in one hand as he turned to face the building while holding onto the railing with the other hand, then pushed his boots through the spaces between the vertical posts.

He knew speed on his part was essential. Once he dropped down, he _would_ be visible to Watson. He could hear Watson yelling angry words toward the jail, his patience wearing thin. Wes Watson was the type of man who would rather die than surrender, and he would be happy to take a lawman or two along with him, especially a lawman who had foiled his plans once before and sent him to prison for a stretch.

His boots firmly hooked within the posts, Jim lowered his body, not giving a thought to the fact that if a post loosened, or he lost his grip, he would fall straight down on his head. Even as he dropped, he was bringing the rifle into position. The moment his body stabilized, he aimed and fired, while hanging upside down.

For just an instant, nothing moved. Then he saw Watson crumple, and Artemus Gordon spring away. Jim quickly reached up to grab the posts with one hand, freed his boots, and then dropped feet first to the street below. His partner was running toward him. Jim experienced some alarm as he straightened and saw the blood on Artie's shirt near the neckline.

"Are you all right?" he asked as soon as Gordon was near.

"I'm fine, I'm fine! My God, Jim! That was an incredible feat." He then noticed how Jim was staring at him, and glanced down. "That's Watson's blood. You got him in the head."

"It was the only way, Artie. I couldn't allow him an instant of reflex time to pull the trigger."

Artemus reached out, put a hand on Jim's shoulder. "James my boy, this calls for a drink, and I assure you, it's on me!"

Along the street, citizens who had dashed for cover when the standoff began were drifting back onto the walkways and porches, clustering and exclaiming over what they had just witnessed through windows and doors. Sheriff Blaine had rushed out to make sure of Watson, and now was asking a teenage boy to go fetch the doctor-coroner. Just in front of the general mercantile, a portly man in a loud green plaid suit and a black derby hat held a fat cigar in one hand as he stared down the street. After a moment, he turned to the woman at his side.

"Viv, there's our savior."

The woman with the cinnamon-colored curls smiled slightly. "I'll say!" She was quite a bit younger than him, but not as young as she tried to appear in the tight fitting gown she wore.

The man glanced at her. "Not that way. A man with talent like that… he'd be a sensation. His fine appearance would be a bonus. The men would come to see him shoot, the ladies would come to see _him_!"

A look of skepticism appeared on Viv's face. "I saw him before. He's a government man. Not show business."

Her companion took a puff on the odorous cigar, exhaled a cloud of smoke. "All the better. We know how the government pays. I'm going to make him an offer he can't possibly refuse."

Viv shook her head. "I don't know, Parny. I think you might be biting off more than you can chew!"

Anger flashed on his round face. "I think I know my way around men like these! I'll sign him. You know I don't fail when I set out to bring a man in." He was staring down the street and did not see the expression of combined fear and distaste that appeared on his companion's face.

W*W*W*W*W

Artemus lifted his glass of excellent Kentucky bourbon. "To the finest shot I have ever seen, and the only man who could have made it."

Stan Blaine hoisted his own glass. "I second that."

Jim West just grinned, picking up his own tumbler. "Lucky shot." At least Artemus had taken the time to return to his hotel room and change his shirt. Jim had found those gory stains unsettling. "I'm just glad you didn't move."

Artie sipped his whiskey. "I knew you'd be up to something, pal. I thought it would be best if I played like I was a statue."

Blaine looked at the pair. "You two work together pretty well."

Artie chuckled. "We ought to after all this time. And we'd better! Otherwise, one or both of us would be dead by now."

"What I want to know," Jim said with a straight face, "is how you allowed Watson to get the upper hand in the bank." A teasing twinkle was in his green eyes.

Artie rolled his eyes. He had known that would come up sooner or later. "I thought Pohl was unconscious or dead after I shot him, James. I saw him move out of the corner of my eye, however, and turned to make sure he did not get to his gun… the rest is history."

Jim made a clucking sound with his tongue. "Artemus, you're slipping. What happened to the eyes in the back of your head?"

"I think they need glasses!"

Blaine laughed. He had known this pair for a long time, since late in the war when they had fought together in the Shenandoah Valley. He was about to make a comment when the man who had approached the table interrupted.

"Pardon me. Mr. West, isn't it?"

Jim looked up at the large man in the garish plaid suit. He held his derby in one hand, a cigar in the other, his baldpate gleaming dully in the saloon's dim interior. "Something I can do for you, sir?"

"Allow me to introduce myself. My card." Combining the cigar and hat in one hand, the other one dipped into an inside pocket to withdraw a small pasteboard, which he handed over. Jim looked at it briefly, passed it to Artemus.

"'Parnassus Tyrus Ordway,'" Artie read aloud. "'Showman Extraordinaire.' That's a mouthful."

Ordway smiled. "My friends call me P.T. I hope we will be friends, Mr. West."

Jim gazed at the man, expressionless. "What can I do for you, Mr. Ordway?" he asked again.

"I would like to speak to you on an urgent matter. Alone."

Jim leaned back. "You can talk in front of my friends. Is it a problem you need help with?"

Uninvited, Ordway pulled out the fourth chair at the table and sat down across from Jim, leaning forward as he put the hat on the table. The cigar's rancid fumes began to create a miasma around the group. "It is a problem, in a sense. I need another act for my show, and I believe you would be perfect."

Jim blinked. "Show? What show?" He had not expected that response.

"As indicated on my business card, I own the P.T. Ordway Circus and Extravaganza, finest traveling exposition in the world. Currently we are putting on performances in the town about thirty miles south of here, and will be setting up nearby next week to treat the citizens of this fine hamlet to an extraordinary show."

"Have you obtained a permit from Mayor Diggs?" the sheriff asked quickly.

Ordway beamed. "That was the primary purpose of my journey here, advance man you might say. A most fortuitous journey, as it turned out. I had previously heard the tale of how Mr. West split a bullet on an axe, and thought it must have been exaggerated. Today, after witnessing Mr. West's remarkable display of marksmanship I certainly believe what I was told." He turned his attention back to Jim. "Mr. West, you are wasting your talents. I can make you very wealthy and very famous in short order."

Bemused, Jim shook his head. "You're mixed up, Mr. Ordway. My partner, Mr. Gordon, is the showman."

Ordway was unfazed. "It was you I saw make that amazing shot, Mr. West. As said, I had heard previously that you were a fine marksman, but I had no idea just how exceptional. I'm sure you can do other tricks that would amaze and astound, and draw in spectators by the hundreds, perhaps thousands."

Jim had picked up his glass to take a sip, and now he lowered it, untouched. "Are you saying you want me to perform in your circus?" He was having a problem comprehending that someone would even make such an offer, let alone presume that he would be interested.

"Exactly, Mr. West. Talent like yours should be put to good use. As I mentioned, I can make you world famous as well as quite rich. We could tour Europe and…"

Jim cut in then, his voice sharp. "I think I put my 'talent' to pretty good use awhile ago, saving my friend's life."

"Yes, yes, certainly," the large man smiled patronizingly. "And if you wish, I'll be happy to put Mr. Gordon on the payroll as well. Perhaps you can recreate the feat…"

Jim looked at Artemus and saw the same astonishment he was experiencing in his partner's face. "Mr. Ordway, I'm aware that you are in a sense offering me a compliment." He spoke evenly, softly. "But what I did out there on the street… I killed a man to save another man's life. I don't regret it, but it's not something I want to dwell on and repeat time and again, in an extravaganza, or otherwise. I thank you for your offer, but the answer is no. I'm not interested."

"You haven't even heard my terms yet, Mr. West."

"I'm not interested in your terms. Please excuse us, Mr. Ordway."

Artemus saw the surprise on P.T. Ordway's face. Jim's voice and expression were hard now. _Ordway seems to think killing a man as Jim did was not only child's play, but also something we do every day. We both have killed. We have to in this line of work. Jim did it to save me, but that did not make it any the more palatable. It was a cold-blooded killing, no matter how one looks at it. I know I'll never forget the sound of that slug entering Watson's skull…_

"Mr. West, you are making a mistake. I am willing to negotiate…"

Now Jim West stood up. "Mr. Ordway, this is a private party."

Perhaps the ice in Jim's green eyes did it this time. Ordway slowly rose. "You have my card. I'll be here overnight, and then will return within the week with my show. Come and see me when you are willing to be reasonable." He picked up his hat, turned and stalked toward the batwing doors.

Jim sank back into his chair, his expression stony. Stan Blaine whistled softly. "That's a determined man, Jim."

Artie smiled. "I think he met an even more determined one, Stan."

"I think you are right, Artemus," the sheriff replied, glancing at West's still angry countenance. "I think you are right."

Jim turned his gaze to his partner. "Ever hear of him before?"

Artie nodded. "I think so. He owns a tent show that flits around from small town to small town. From what I've heard, he'd never make it in the big city with a more sophisticated audience… unless he had a performer who could do amazing feats with a gun." He eyed Jim.

"Then he'll have to look elsewhere."

W*W*W*W*W

It is the nature of every person to error, but only the fool perseveres in error.

—Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 BC), Roman philosopher

"Don't look now," Artemus spoke in a low voice from behind his coffee cup, "but we have company."

From the tone of Artie's voice and the expression on his face, Jim knew that whoever was approaching their table was not someone they would welcome warmly. Still, he glanced around to see the wide-girthed man, this time attired in a slightly more stylish gray suit, though a large sparkling stone glittered from the tiepin inserted into his puff tie. He was not alone. A woman clung to his arm.

At first glance, from a distance, she was an attractive woman with reddish hair, though attired in a satin gown that appeared to be more suitable for an evening of theater and cocktails rather than a dusty cow town in the middle of Wyoming. As the pair approached, her age began to show. She was closer to thirty-five than the twenty-five she was obviously attempting to emulate. The dress was low cut, and she sported a glittering necklace as well as dangling, sparkling earrings.

Innate courtesy bade both men to rise, though each was aware that the female on Ordway's arm was far from owning the title of a "lady." P.T. Ordway was beaming. "What a marvelous surprise to encounter you two here. I was considering writing to find out if you had considered my offer further, Mr. West."

Jim gazed at him coolly. "I never gave it another thought, Mr. Ordway."

Ordway's wide smile became fixed. "You have a wonderful sense of humor, Mr. West. Oh, pardon me. Allow me to introduce the brilliant star of my extravaganza. This lovely young lady is Miss Vivian La Belle. She sings like an angel and dances like a sylph. My dear, Mr. Gordon, and Mr. West. I've mentioned them to you."

The woman batted her lashes, her attention fully on James West. "I am so delighted to meet you, Mr. West. I look forward to… interacting with you in Mr. Ordway's productions." Jim had the distinct impression she was definitely interested, but her behavior just now was forced, the smile fake.

"How do you do, Miss La Belle," Jim replied politely. "I'm afraid Mr. Ordway may have misled you. I have no intention of joining the 'production,' or anything else associated with his show."

Immediately she turned a pouting expression toward the large man. "Parny, darling, you aren't being stingy again, are you?"

Ordway beamed at her. If he was aware she was putting on an act, he either did not notice or approved. "Of course not, my pet. Mr. West and I have not sat down to serious negotiations yet. I'm sure once we do, the matter will be settled rapidly. If you will come to my hotel room later, Mr. West, I'll show you the contract I have had drawn up. I'm sure you'll be pleased with…"

"Mr. Ordway," Jim cut in icily, "I told you before, and I'll tell you now, I have no interest in joining your show. Not for any amount of money."

The smile flickered ever so slightly. Ordway turned his attention to Artemus. "Mr. Gordon, as a former showman, I'm sure you have talked to your partner about…"

Now it was Artie's turn to interrupt. "Mr. Ordway, I can assure you that what Mr. West just said is the absolute truth. Neither of us is interested in joining your circus in any capacity. I know Mr. West is flattered by the offer. I hope you'll excuse us. We have an appointment as soon as we finish our meal… which is getting cold." Though his tone was mild, Artie's eyes revealed his annoyance and anger. He had become aware that he had better step in. He could see Jim's temper starting to boil.

Ordway looked from one man to the other, glanced at the woman as though considering whether to encourage her to use her wiles further, then finally shrugged. "As I said before, you have my card. My whereabouts will not be difficult to ascertain. The P.T. Ordway Extravaganza is well known, after all. Perhaps we'll meet fortuitously again…." He tipped his hat and led his companion away.

Jim sank into his chair, muttering something. Artie looked at him. "What's that you said? That Ordway is a fine upstanding gentleman? I agree with you wholeheartedly, sir. Wholeheartedly."

Jim had to grin as he picked up his fork again. "Persistent one, anyway. I believe he got the message this time."

Artemus looked toward the pair that was just now exiting the restaurant. _I'm not so sure about that… not sure indeed._

W*W*W*W*W

Jim entered the varnish car carrying the cup of coffee he had poured in the galley. He was not surprised to see his partner bent over the clattering telegraph key at the other end of the car, and caught the last few words of the message. "Is that what I think it is?"

Artie looked up. "I'm afraid so. No rest for the wicked or the weary, James. We are to proceed to Arapaho Creek, Wyoming to meet with Territorial Senator Wallace White, who will fill us in on some dastardly deeds that are occurring in his district."

Sitting down on the arm of the sofa facing the rear, Jim sipped his coffee. "No clue what the deeds are?"

"No, but obviously something that is considered federal jurisdiction." Artemus sighed. "And here I was hoping for a leisurely train trip back to Washington."

Jim grinned. "With a stop in Cincinnati where a certain Miss Fortune is currently performing with her troupe."

"That would have been nice," Artie sighed again then pushed himself to his feet. "I'll start breakfast if you'll inform the crew. I hope there's a siding right close to Arapaho Creek, I am not in the mood for a long horseback ride."

"The name Wallace White sounds familiar," Jim mused. "Wonder why?"

Artemus shook his head. "Probably heard it mentioned on some previous pleasure jaunt through Wyoming Territory. Or saw it on an electioneering poster."

Jim nodded absently as he headed out to inform the train crew of the plans. He had a distinct sense that Wallace White's name had come up in some entirely different context, but what that had been was not coming to mind just now. Perhaps meeting him would help.

Artie's wish was partially granted as two days later the Wanderer parked on a siding that was just ten miles west of Arapaho Creek, Wyoming. As Artemus pointed out, they could at least return to the train at night, to their own beds, if no decent accommodations were available. After a good breakfast, the agents saddled up and headed toward the town, which they knew was located in a small valley just east of the rail lines.

The road led between two low hills and opened into the broad area known as Indian Rock Valley. A couple of creeks roamed through the area, including the one for which the town was named, providing water and grasslands for the numerous cattle they saw grazing in the fields on either side of the road. The area appeared prosperous—and peaceful.

"Wonder what the problem is here," Artie mused as they spotted the buildings of the town ahead of them. "Not another madman planning to conquer the world, I hope."

Jim shook his head. "Loveless has been quiet for awhile."

"Yeah. I keep hoping that one of his experiments blew up on him and took him out of our lives."

Jim chuckled. "Wishful thinking." The little doctor appeared to be indestructible, at least if one considered the number of times they had believed him to have been involved in a fatal incident, only to have him pop up again elsewhere.

They had just reached the first building at the edge of town, a large structure that appeared to be part of the livery stable and blacksmith shop whose sign they saw hanging from the front, when Artie groaned aloud. "I don't believe it!"

Jim looked around. "What?"

Artemus pointed toward the building and Jim saw what he meant. A large, colorful poster announced that the astonishing and amazing P.T. Ordway Circus and Extravaganza would be performing in Arapaho Creek. "They should be here anytime now," he commented, noticing the dates on an overlain strip.

Though annoyed with the coincidence, Jim just shook his head. "If he tries to interfere with our investigation, we'll just throw him in jail."

Artie wondered if his partner was as okay with the fluke that put them in the same town as the showman as his demeanor indicated. They had not talked about Ordway after the encounter in the restaurant a few weeks ago, although Artemus had mentioned the incident to Lily Fortune in the last letter he wrote to her. The response to that letter arrived just the day prior to the telegraph message with this assignment.

Lily had heard of P.T. Ordway. At one time, she understood, he was a well-known and reasonably successful performer on the New York stage, renowned for his extravagant attire and bawdy songs. Some years ago he had bought into a traveling show, and when his partner died in an accident, took complete control. Rumors were that his excessiveness now extended to his spending habits, both for the show and personally, and that income from the show never came close to matching expenditures. He was deeply in debt.

_That certainly explains why he is desperate for a top-flight act to draw in customers_, Artie had reflected. James West, already famed for his exploits as a government agent, would certainly fill that bill. Artie knew that Jim would have never agreed to any offer, although Ordway had gone about approaching the agent in the worst manner possible. A little subtlety might have at least caused Jim to be a bit intrigued.

Jim was the one who spotted the shingle suspended from the edge of the overhanging roof of the porch on the small building: Wallace White, Attorney-at-Law. They had been told that the state legislator was a practicing attorney; during a recess in territorial business, he would be in Arapaho Creek to meet with them. They dismounted and tied their horses to the rail in front of that building. Neither could help but notice that a few passersby cast distinctly cool and suspicious looks their way.

Stepping through the front door, they found themselves in a small anteroom, where a thin young man with slicked down hair looked up from the typewriting machine he had been using. His eyes registered disdain as he surveyed the two dusty men in trail garb. "May I help you, gentlemen?"

Artemus pulled out his identification folder and extended it toward him. "We're here to see Senator White."

The clerk's demeanor changed immediately. "Yes, of course. He's expecting you. One moment please." Rising from his chair he tapped on an interior door, then entered, closing it behind him. The agents exchanged glances as the waiting period extended toward several minutes before he returned, smiling politely and leaving the door open behind him. "Please go on in."

The interior office was what one might expect of a lawyer's office: walls lined with books, a few framed certificates in bare spaces, a fine heavy desk covered with papers and a few knickknacks such as a carved wooden figurine of a buffalo and another brass one depicting an Indian chief in feathered headdress. Two wooden chairs completed the furnishings.

The man behind the desk was not what either anticipated. Artie knew he had thought the elected representative would be white haired, perhaps even on the portly side. The man who rose from behind the desk and extended his hand was young, probably in his mid thirties. His blond hair was very wavy, just short of being considered curly. Smiling blue eyes gazed at them, surrounded by even features. A much younger and more handsome man than they had expected.

Jim made the introductions, and then they sat down. "Senator White, we were told you would enlighten us as to why our presence is needed here," Jim said.

"I can tell you one thing," White smiled. "Your presence is most welcome here."

"We understand you feel the need of federal intervention in some matter," Artemus prodded.

White cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, I believe a resident of this area is plotting to assassinate President Grant, and possibly take over the government in Washington."

Neither man rolled his eyes, but both felt like it. Jim asked politely, "What causes you to come to that conclusion, senator?"

"The majority of the residents of Arapaho Creek as well as Indian Rock Valley are northerners, gentlemen. Many, like myself, engaged in the recent war on the side of the Union and fully support the government. However, we do have a few who were ardent supporters of the Confederacy."

"Excuse me," Artie spoke mildly, smiling a little, "but that does not necessarily make them anarchists."

"I am quite aware of that. In fact, of the twenty or so men and women in this area who have southern connections—some farmers and ranchers, some hired men—I am thinking of just one, a man who has caused a number of disruptions in the local taverns with his anti-Grant rhetoric."

"We can't arrest a man for talking," Jim pointed out.

A flash of irritation appeared in White's eyes. "I'm aware of that, Mr. West. I'm merely suggesting that you visit Merrill Harkness and form an opinion. I should point out that he is a client of mine. I'm the only attorney in this area, and I don't find it prudent—or good business—to refuse my services because of personal animosity. I know he feels the same way about being required to deal with an ex-Yankee soldier. I represent all citizens as a legislator."

"We can do that," Artie said, as both agents got to their feet. "Where will we find Mr. Harkness?"

"The Rocker H ranch is the last one at the north end of the valley. It's quite a good spread. Mr. Harkness arrived several years ago with funds to purchase two properties and merge them into one. I will mention that some resentment arose with that acquisition, as the Rocker H now has the best water and the best grazing land in the area. Other longer-established residents had hoped to acquire that property, but Mr. Harkness outbid them."

Artie caught his partner's glance as they both turned toward the door, and knew that Jim's thoughts were the same. Had Wallace White been one of the bidders?

"We'll look into it, senator," Jim said as he reached for the door handle, becoming aware of voices from the outer office, one a rather loud male voice. This time he looked at Artie directly, brows lifting.

Artie heard it too, and the voice was too familiar. Jim proceeded to open the door, whereupon neither agent was surprised to find Parnassus Tyrus Ordway, resplendent in his green plaid, standing in front of the young assistant's desk. He looked as the door opened, and his eyes widened in great surprise; too great.

"I don't believe it! Surely this must be kismet! Here we are together again in the same location. Mr. West, Mr. Gordon, how good to see you again!"

They ignored his proffered hand, barely nodding as they exited onto the wooden porch. Artie saw the anger on his partner's countenance and sought to distract him. "Jim, there's a sheriff's office down the street. See the sign?"

Jim looked and spotted the wooden sign positioned vertically to the front of a brick building, the only brick structure visible. "We'd better talk to him," he nodded. He knew he needed a few minutes to cool his irritation anyway and the walk down the street would help.

Leaving the horses tied in front of the senator's office, they angled across the dusty street to the porch of the brick structure. The door was standing open, so Artie stepped up to the entrance and called, "Hello!"

Upon receiving no reply, he moved farther in, Jim following. The room was dim and cool. A roll-top desk was at one side, a bench against the wall near it, and a barrel-back chair in front. A rack on the wall held rifles, securely locked in. But no one was present. Jim spotted the heavy door at the rear and went to it, pulling it open and peering in toward the empty cells.

"Not there, either," he commented, closing the door and turning back.

"Must not be too far away to have left the front door standing open," Artie posited. "Guess we could wait a few minutes."

Jim nodded. "What did you think of White?"

"I don't know. I think I'm remembering where you may have heard the name before though."

"Yeah?"

"Must have been about 'fifty-nine. Before the war anyway. Wallace White ran for the U.S. Congress from Kentucky—until it was proven he was not yet twenty-five years old, the minimum age requirement. He didn't get the seat, but he got lots of publicity."

Jim frowned. "That might be it, though I don't recall that specific incident. Maybe it'll come to me."

"Or maybe we can send a few messages from the train this evening."

"Something I can help you with, gents?" inquired the dark shape that suddenly filled the doorway.

"We'd like to discuss something with you, sheriff," Jim replied, spotting the shiny badge on the corduroy vest the burly man was wearing. "I'm James West, and this is my partner, Artemus Gordon. We are…"

"I know who you are."

The iciness of the tone, matched by the coldness in the man's brown eyes, was startling., "Sheriff, I wonder if we are not being mistaken for someone else," Artie ventured. "We couldn't help but notice a few stares by people on the street."

"I don't think so," the lawman replied, moving to sit in the chair by the desk. "Tell me what you want and then get the hell out of my office."

Now the two men exchanged glances before Jim spoke quietly. "Sheriff, why don't you just tell us what you think we want?"

"You're here to harass one of the most popular men in this valley, at the behest of Senator White."

"And that popular man is…?" Artie prompted.

"Merrill Harkness. Am I right? Did White sic you on him?"

Jim folded his arms across his chest. "All the more reason why we need to talk to you, sheriff. To get your side of the story."

The sheriff's eyes narrowed as he looked from one man to the other. "What did White tell you?"

"That Harkness is an anarchist looking to overthrow the U.S. government," Artemus replied flatly.

The lawman slapped his palm on the desk beside him, and threw his head back to bark a raucous laugh. "Well, nothin' else has worked to get Harkness to sell out, has it?"

Again the agents looked at each other, and Artie urged, "Do you mind telling us your side of the story?"

For a long moment the sheriff gazed at each of them. Then he seemed to make up his mind and nodded. "Sit down, gents. By the way, I'm Floyd Lyon, the first and only sheriff Indian Head Valley has ever had. Sorry if I sounded cross. I reckon a lot of us are tired of Wallace White's highhandedness."

Artie was nearest the lone visitor's chair and he took it, while Jim perched on the nearby bench. "We didn't get much information when we were sent here," Artie put in. _I wonder why. White must have friends in high places, especially if what Lyon is going to tell us is true._ Without even hearing the sheriff's story, Artie knew he was prone to believe it.

"White showed up here in 'sixty-three," Lyon began, and Jim immediately interrupted.

"He told us he was a veteran of the war."

"Oh, I guess that's true enough. Never been able to track down just what his record was, but I saw his discharge papers when he was running for office and his opponent challenged him. Appeared he was let go for 'health reasons,' but he sure seems hale and hearty to me. As I recall, he was in a Kentucky regiment, one that was on the Union side at least. Anyway, he came to town, hung up his sign and started practicing law. At first folks were a bit leery of such a young fellow, but he seemed to know his law books. And he was generous. Didn't charge high fees, especially to folks who didn't have the wherewithal to pay them."

"When did it go sour?" Jim asked.

"Long about the end of the war when men who had gone off to fight started coming back, along with newcomers, looking to settle, like Merrill Harkness. Two families related to each other through marriage, the Eversoles and the Kendalls, owned property side by side at the end of the valley. They decided to pull up stakes and move further west, putting their properties up for sale. White bid on the properties, and was courting the widow Lofton around that time. The Lofton ranch borders what was the Eversole property, and it seemed to many of us that White figured on killing three birds with one stone, if you get my drift, ending up with one of the largest ranches in the state. And best, what with the water in that area.

"Anyway, Harkness put the kibosh on that by showing up with money to outbid everyone on those two spreads. White was fit to be tied, and tried to stop the deal, but there wasn't nothing he could do about it. Shortly, he gave up on Lucy Lofton, went to Cheyenne and came back with a bride. Then he ran for the territorial seat."

"If he's such a despicable character," Artie wanted to know, "how did he get elected?"

Lyon made a disgusted sound. "On account of the whole district is more than just this valley. He went outside the valley and used his considerable charm—and money—to wrap up enough votes to get the seat. It's a six-year term that will expire this coming fall. I don't think he'll win again."

West and Gordon were silent a long moment, then Jim rose. "I think we'd better go talk to Harkness."

Artie got to his feet as well. "Is the part about him being a rabid hater of Yankees true, sheriff?"

Now Lyon grinned. "Well, he don't love us, that's for sure."

Jim asked, "White told us that he has been doing a lot of talking in the saloon, disparaging the government and threatening President Grant."

Again the sheriff snorted. "It's a saloon, gentlemen. What do people talk about in a saloon? Cattle and politics. I've been there. Harkness doesn't drink much—he's a family man—but he's not afraid to state his opinions. And he listens to what others have to say. Never heard of him making any threats. Like I said, he's a popular man. He helped rebuild the schoolhouse and church when they burned down two years ago—they sit next to each other south of town. He married a local girl, which softened things, I reckon. Anyone needs help, they can almost always count on Merrill Harkness. Some think he should stand for White's seat, but he's not inclined to politics. At least not in that way."

"Thank you for your help, sheriff," Jim said.

Now the lawman displayed an abashed grin. "I surely want to apologize for how I greeted you. We heard that White sent for some government men to help him drive Harkness out."

Artie cocked his head. "You believe he has that kind of influence?"

"It's happened before. I told you how he tried to stop Harkness from buying that property. He had some fellow from Washington come in and claim that Harkness was wanted for being part of Cantrell's boys, tried to arrest him. But Harkness showed his papers and proved he was serving in Virginia all during the war, even offered to get a letter from General Longstreet, who he knew personally it seems. That's when White backed down."

"Do you remember the name of this government man?" Jim asked.

Lyon frowned, gazing at Jim. "Not offhand. I reckon I could come up with it. Important?"

"Might be. Depends on how things play out. Thank you again, sheriff. We'll be talking to you."

"Oh, sheriff," Artie paused on the porch, "one more thing. This circus that's in town… know anything about it?"

Lyon shook his head. "It was kind of a sudden thing. All of a sudden that fellow Ordway showed up, asked if they could put on a show. About three days ago I think now. Whole shebang ain't arrived yet. Just Ordway and some posters."

When they crossed the street to retrieve their horses, White's assistant was standing in the doorway of his office. He nodded in their direction. They nodded back, mounted and rode north out of town, neither speaking until they had cleared the last building.

"Odd situation," Jim commented.

"That, James my boy, is putting it mildly. I'm really anxious to get back to the train to send some messages now. I'm getting the distinct sense that Territorial Senator White is trying to use us to increase his wealth."

"Of course, if Harkness turns out to be the rabid anti-Yankee that White claims…"

"Yeah. I see what you mean. Ordway showing up here is what throws me. I cannot believe it's a coincidence. Seems as though a showman of his experience would realize this is not a profitable location to put on an exhibition. The town and the outlying population seems too sparse."

"You'd sure think so. How would he know that we were going to be here?" Jim's frown was deep.

"That, my friend, is the question indeed. And what, if anything, does his presence have to do with… anything? Senator White requested our presence, and the first thing we see is Ordway in White's office. Like I said, too much of a coincidence to suit me."

"He could be following us," Jim put in, without much conviction.

"Maybe," Artie concurred. "Maybe."

At a steady lope, a little less than an hour was required to reach the lane leading to the Rocker H, and another five minutes to come in sight of the ranch buildings. A number of men were working in and around a corral, apparently training some horses, and all stopped to gaze at the strangers who rode up toward the fine looking two-story white house.

The man who came out onto the porch was in his middle thirties, with sandy hair and a ruddy complexion. He also was missing his left arm, the sleeve tucked into his trousers. "Something I can do for you gents?" he asked.

Neither dismounted immediately, and Jim spoke. "Mr. Harkness, my name is James West and this is my partner, Artemus Gordon. We're federal agents."

The smile that widened Harkness's lips was wry. "So he did it. Light down, boys, and come on in. I reckon we have some talkin' to do." His accent was distinctly southern.

Tying their mounts off at the wooden rail at the end of the path that led to the porch, the two agents followed Harkness into a nicely furnished but not luxurious front parlor, where a lovely woman with dark hair and worried blue eyes was waiting, an infant in her arms while a toddler of three or so hung onto her skirts. Harkness introduced her as his wife, Rebecca, and asked her to bring coffee. He took the baby from her, cradling it in his remaining arm, and nodded Jim and Artie to the sofa while he seated himself on a rocker. The older boy climbed onto his knee, still staring at the visitors.

"What tale did White come up with to get you out here?" he asked.

"That you want to assassinate President Grant," Artie replied, keeping his eyes on the rancher's face. He saw utter astonishment.

"Well, I always knew he was an imaginative liar. But I won't lie to you. Ulysses Grant ain't my most favorite fellow, that's for sure. We were doing pretty good in Virginia, at least holding our own 'til Grant showed up." He glanced at his empty sleeve. "I was finished in The Wilderness, but I know what happened after that. I lost friends at Cold Harbor."

"So did we," Jim replied softly.

Harkness was silent a moment, his gaze going to the infant cradled in his arm. He looked up. "I know that. It was a hellish situation. None of it ever should've happened. Never was sure why I even joined up. I didn't own slaves. Didn't like slavery, neither. But…" He shrugged. "My friends were enlisting."

"May I ask you a question, Mr. Harkness?" Artie inquired. When Harkness nodded, he continued. "I'm getting the distinct impression you were not of the gentry in… wherever you came from."

"Arkansas. Nope. My folks were poor. Dirt poor. Now you're wondering where I got the money to buy this place." Harkness grinned.

"That was going to be the question, yes."

"Crazy thing. I got back home and my pa was dead, the homestead gone for taxes. Ma was ailing. Just about the time she passed away, I got a letter from a lawyer in Sacramento. Seems Ma had a brother—one I'd heard about but didn't know where he was—who made a goodly fortune in California. He'd passed away and made Ma his heir. Since she was gone, I was next in line. I decided on a fresh start in a fresh place, and came here. I can show you all the papers if you want."

_Seems like everyone has papers to show us!_ Artie smiled and shook his head. "That's not necessary at the moment." He looked toward his partner. "How did White expect us to swallow his story?"

Jim shook his head. "A better question might be why he thought we'd believe him. I think we need to return to the train."

Mrs. Harkness entered just then, bearing a tray with cups of coffee. "I hope you're not leaving immediately," she said. "I would like to invite you to lunch."

"You don't want to turn down one of Rebecca's meals," her husband put in. "She's the best cook in Wyoming."

"You sold me," Artie said quickly, shooting a pleading glance toward his partner.

Jim chuckled. "We don't need to rush off."

W*W*W*W*W

_Periculosae plenum opus aleae tractas, et incedis per ignes suppositos cineri doloso._

[You are dealing with a work full of dangerous hazard, and you are venturing upon fires overlaid with treacherous ashes.]  
—_ Odes _(bk. II, 1, 6), Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus; 65 BC-8 BC), Roman poet

"I got Rebecca Harkness's recipe for the chicken, Jim. That had to be the finest fried chicken I've ever eaten! I can't wait to prepare it."

Jim glanced at his partner with a tolerant smile, knowing how much cooking and good food meant to Artie. "Afraid that's going to have to wait until we get this business cleared up." They had left the Rocker H and were riding back toward town.

"Right. But it's something to look forward to. What next?"

"Well," Jim sighed, "I think we'd better talk with White again—only not let him know everything we found out from Harkness and the sheriff."

"His assistant saw us, so I'm sure he knows we talked to Lyon, and that Lyon would have steered us right where Harkness is concerned."

'Yeah. Well, we'll play it close to the vest. After all, we can't divulge all our information."

"Yeah." Artie shook his head. "Jim, this is crazy. White has to know we'd learn the truth. What's this all about?"

"I have a very bad feeling that somehow our good friend P.T. is involved."

"I do agree that his presence here is too much of a fluke. But how and why?"

"Good question. Maybe the bureau will have some information on whether and how White and Ordway are acquainted."

"If Ordway is involved, it has to be entirely about wanting you to join his show, Jim."

"Yeah. Well, the answer is going to be the same."

"What beats me is that if Ordway _is_ involved, how does he expect to convince you to sign on with him? What's his connection with White?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't know, Artie. Presumably, we'll find out."

Upon returning to Arapaho Creek, they went to the office of Wallace White. The secretary greeted them much more cordially this time and escorted them directly into the inner office. White jumped to his feet.

"Mr. Gordon! Mr. West! What did you find out?"

"Not a lot," Artie said soberly. "We think that Mr. Harkness somehow received warning of our visit and put on a great act."

"A warning? From whom?"

Jim shook his head. "Hard to say. I'm sure that even a man like Harkness has friends. Or perhaps he has spies in town. In any case, we'll continue to investigate."

"He can't continue the subterfuge forever," Artemus spoke with firmness. "We have to be certain, Mr. White. Our job is to protect the president."

White beamed. "Of course it is, and you do a fine job of it."

"Mr. White," Jim said, pausing as they started to turn back toward the door, "I don't suppose you can tell us what Ordway wanted here."

White shrugged. "It's no secret. He's looking for investors in his show and wanted my advice. It's an excellent exhibition. I'm considering an investment myself. Have you seen it?"

"No," Artie said, shaking his head. "But we've certainly heard of it. Good day, Mr. White. We'll be in touch."

Their visit with the sheriff was almost as brief, filling him in on what they had just told White so he would not be alarmed when they appeared to be continuing to "investigate" Harkness, not to mention siding with White. Lyon could offer no help as to why White would have come up with such a cock-and-bull story, though he suspected a possible motive: White wanted the Rocker H ranch.

As they left the sheriff's office and started to walk back toward their horses, hitched again in front of the lawyer's office, Jim glanced at the door of the business they were passing. "Artie, here's the mercantile. I'm just about out of smokes. I think I'll go in there and see what they have in stock."

Artie nodded. "Go ahead. I'll wait out here. Nothing I need." He paused on the store's porch, leaning against a post, as his partner went inside.

Jim made his way through the stacks of seed and flour bags, the tables filled with piles of shirts and bolts of fabric, to the main counter, where he found a very comely young lady with strawberry blonde curls and many freckles. He flirted with her while he made his selection of cigarillos, and had just paid for the purchase when he heard the gunshots from outside.

Dropping the box on the counter, Jim raced back toward the door, pulling his pistol as he did so. Bursting out onto the porch, the first thing he saw was his partner face down in the dust of the street. He leapt off the porch, and as he knelt down, Artie raised his head slightly.

"I'm all right, Jim. He missed. Shots came from that alley next to the restaurant."

Coming to his feet again, Jim sprinted toward that alley, aware of voices and movement around him as startled and curious people were emerging to find out what was going on. Upon reaching the mouth of the alley, he first halted outside of it, cautiously peering around the corner of the building.

Seeing nothing but the usual litter one finds in an alley like this, he ran to the rear and again flattened himself against the alley wall before peering around and again saw no movement, only outhouses, a couple of what were probably storage sheds, and again the usual detritus of civilization: empty and broken crates, bottles, and tin cans.

Having no idea of which way to look and seeing no possible witnesses even peering out backdoors or windows, he holstered his gun and returned to the street. Artie was on his feet, brushing himself off. Floyd Lyon was standing beside him, gun in hand, which he holstered when Jim appeared.

"Nothing?" Artie called.

"Nothing," Jim confirmed. "Did you see anything?"

Artie shook his head in the negative. "I must remember to thank Mrs. Harkness again for the recipe. While I was waiting for you, I decided to pull it out to read it over, and it slipped from my hand. Just as I bent over to retrieve it, the shots were fired." He glanced back toward the mercantile, where the bullet holes in the wall were evident. "I just hit the ground."

"That's crazy," Lyon shook his own head in wonderment. "Right in the middle of town!"

"Must have been Harkness, or one of his men."

The three lawmen turned to face Wallace White, who had come up to join them after apparently hearing the commotion. "That would be pretty stupid on his part," Artemus replied mildly, "considering we were just out there talking to him."

The lawyer was unfazed. "I'm sure you're quite aware that criminals are not always extra intelligent, regardless that they think so themselves."

Jim nodded. "We have noticed that, Senator."

P.T. Ordway had joined the group now. "You are in a dangerous business, gentlemen. You ought to consider more peaceful pursuits. And more lucrative."

Artie eyed him. "And miss all this fun? Jim, we'd better get moving."

Jim concurred, turning to go back into the store to retrieve his purchase, but found the pretty clerk on the porch with the package. He thanked her warmly and her cheeks grew rosy, blue eyes sparkling. "Charming young lady," Artemus commented as they mounted their horses and headed out of town.

"I've noticed a few in this town," Jim agreed, grinning, then sobered. "Artie…"

"I know. It makes no sense again. Unless it's someone I've offended in the past who just leapt at an opportunity."

"Well, that would narrow it down to a few hundred. But that's part of what doesn't make sense. We were pretty exposed riding to and from the Rocker H, and I noticed a number of decent ambush spots. The two of us were together in town, in the middle of the street. Yet the shooter waited until you were alone."

Artie pondered a moment then shrugged. "So perhaps I am the target. Or lessening the odds?"

"Maybe." Jim did not say anything further, unsure if he could explain this sense he had, that Artie was indeed the target. _Why? Could it be someone with a particular grudge against him? I can think of very few instances where only one of us was responsible for capturing a criminal. It's usually a joint effort, and when the convicted swears revenge, it's against both of us._

W*W*W*W*W

When the agents returned to town the following morning, they were armed with some information received over the telegraph in response to messages they had sent. They found Sheriff Lyon in his office and proceeded to fill him in.

"I'm not surprised," the lawman responded, shaking his head. "White never really says he was a big war hero. Maybe too smart for that, knowing there are men in this area who had actually been in just about every big fracas that happened during the war and might be able to call him on it. But he sure did suggest he was more than just a clerk at headquarters."

"That's apparently what he was," Jim said, "though his records are still being searched. Not only that, his enlistment lasted for a very short time before he received a medical release, with no specific health problem listed. The physician who signed his release was later ousted for taking bribes in similar cases."

"Why the devil did he ask for government help with this… this lie about Harkness? Wouldn't he figure you'd do some investigating?"

"That is puzzling to us," Artie concurred. "We've decided to play along a little further with him to see if we can figure it out. We also have a sense that P.T. Ordway is involved, but we are unsure how—other than the fact he is obsessed with getting Jim to sign up with his show."

"Ordway has never been in this town before," the sheriff stated. "I never heard of him or his show until he came by that day to ask about setting one up here. This is a small town, and the valley isn't very big either. I doubt he'd get more than a hundred or so customers all together to pay admission, if that many. 'Course, I don't know how these things work, but that doesn't seem like a very big profit."

"I don't know much about Ordway's show," Artie put in, "but I do know that similar shows want a larger audience than that to make ends meet. We have information that Ordway is in deep financial trouble—perhaps because he cannot attract larger audiences. That is why, of course, he would like to sign someone like my partner to perform."

Lyon smiled, nodding. "I haven't seen you in action, Mr. West, but I've certainly heard about you. I expect I'd pay to see you."

Jim chuckled. "You don't have to pay, sheriff. But I can't promise I'll be putting on a show, either. It's just part of the job."

After a few more minutes with the sheriff, they crossed the street to enter Wallace White's office. The secretary beamed and told them to go right in. Senator White was expecting them. White came to his feet from behind his desk as they entered.

"Gentlemen! Please sit down. Anything new?" He resumed his chair as they settled on the visitors' chairs.

"Not really," Artemus replied casually. "We've sent some inquiries out about Harkness… among other things… but haven't received anything of significance back yet." He saw the shadows flit through White's eyes with the mention of "among other things."

"Well, I imagine that unless he was a major criminal or someone else of importance, not much information would be available, would it? I can only tell you what I know of him here. One thing I did not warn you about is that he has pulled the wool over the eyes of a number of people here. Generous with his money, you know. People don't want to think ill of a man who builds a schoolhouse."

Jim nodded somberly. "That's very true."

White cleared his throat. "Mr. West, may I ask you something?" When Jim merely looked at him, he continued. "Mr. Ordway tells me you've turned down a lucrative contract to perform in his show. Are you sure that's wise?"

"I'm not a performer, Mr. White."

"Hmm. I thought perhaps you felt he was not offering adequate compensation. I would like to offer you my legal expertise in such matters. If you bring the contract to me, I would be delighted…"

"No, thank you. I'm not a performer."

The iciness in Jim's expression and the repeated phrase caused White to clear his throat again. "Very well. But if I can be of service…" He cleared his throat a third time. "Oh, before I forget, my wife asked me to invite the two of you to dinner tonight."

Artemus smiled. "That would be very nice. We'd like to meet Mrs. White."

"She's a lovely woman," White beamed. "And I assure you I'm not merely prejudiced. We also have a fine cook. The house is just west of town. Two story, white… you can't miss it. Would seven be all right?"

"Why did you say that?" Jim asked as they again crossed the dusty street toward their horses.

"Say what?"

"That we'd like to meet Mrs. White."

"Well, we would, wouldn't we? Sometimes one can tell a great deal about a man by the woman he chooses. Look at me. My fiancée is beautiful, intelligent, famous… what does that say about me?"

Jim put a foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle. "That you're one hell of a lucky man."

His partner made a snorting noise as they turned their horses down the street. They had previously decided to pay another call on Harkness, and then visit some of his neighbors. At this point they did not feel it prudent to openly visit town residents to question them about either Harkness or White. Not until they were more certain as to what was going on.

"What interests me," Artie said then, "is that from what the sheriff told us, the current Mrs. White arrived on the scene quite soon after White dropped his suit for the widow who owned the property next the current Harkness property. Was she waiting in the wings all along?"

"What, you think he would have married the widow, perhaps murdered her for the property, and then brought in a new wife?"

"Stranger things have happened, James. I'm being philosophical, perhaps, but it does seem to me that learning about the kind of woman she is might reveal a great deal about Wallace White."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter Two**_

A worthless woman! mere cold clay

As all false things are! but so fair,

She takes the breath of men away

Who gaze upon her unaware:

I would not play her larcenous tricks

To have her looks!  
—_ Bianca among the Nightingales (st. 12)_,

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861), English poet

Jessamyn White was exactly what Jim expected: a very beautiful woman, with shiny brunette hair and large brown eyes, a superb figure that he suspected did not need much assistance from a corset. Although the rose-toned gown she wore was quite decorous and suitable for the wife of a senator welcoming guests for dinner, it also displayed enough of her full bosom to tempt the imagination.

She greeted both agents warmly, but Artemus did not miss that it was Jim West's arm she grasped to escort into the parlor where aperitifs were served. Artie was also a bit surprised that her husband steered the conversation away from the reason he had requested their presence in Wyoming, bringing up topics such as horses, weapons, and the weather.

Jim was careful to not respond too strongly to Jessamyn White's flirtation. Nor was her coquetry overly obvious. She was highly adept in the art and knew just how often to flutter her long lashes or to smile in his direction to, he was fairly certain, lay the groundwork. The question was: the groundwork for what?

Artemus tried not to keep glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. They had been invited for seven, had arrived promptly. Nearly forty-five minutes had elapsed since their arrival, and while casual conversation and a fine aperitif was not unusual before a dinner, the time seemed excessive. No servant had come to the parlor to perhaps consult with Mrs. White about a problem. He began to have the distinct impression they were waiting for something—or someone.

That suspicion was proved out just minutes later when the front door knocker sounded. The same thin, gray-haired woman who had admitted them hurried down the hallway. Artie glanced at Jim, and both saw by the sudden uneasiness on the faces of both Mr. and Mrs. White that they were aware of who was at the door. A moment later, both agents knew as well, when they heard the booming voice.

White got to his feet, his smile too bright. "I think I forgot to mention that I invited Mr. Ordway to dinner as well. I'm sure it will make for an interesting and pleasant time."

As he went out to greet the new arrival, Mrs. White, who was seated next to Jim on a sofa, turned slightly and put her hand on his arm, speaking in a low voice. "I'm really sorry, Mr. West. When Wallace told me, I was quite distressed. I've met Mr. Ordway, and I really don't like him at all."

"The feeling is mutual," Jim muttered. He glanced at his partner and knew that Artemus was echoing his thoughts. Though sharing a table with P.T. Ordway was far from their favorite way to enjoy a meal, they were each curious enough about this turn of events to endure it. No doubt now that White and Ordway were in cahoots, but why?Why would a man with the political ambitions White appeared to possess associate with such a man, let alone cooperate with him in this manner?

Artemus was glad to see Jim was holding his temper. He had no doubt his partner's first impulse had been to stalk out of the house. He himself was extremely annoyed with this turn of events, but like Jim, also very intrigued. _I know that's the only reason Jim is hanging on. Some connection has to exist between White and the showman, but what is it? _

Both men came to their feet as White and Ordway came into the parlor. Ordway's grin was wide, and he held out his hand. "Gentlemen, I cannot tell you how delighted I was when the senator informed me you would be present. A chance for us to get acquainted!" As before, both men ignored the proffered hand, and Ordway dropped it, seeming not to notice the slight. "Mrs. White, how lovely you look tonight."

"Thank you, Mr. Ordway. I believe dinner is ready. Shall we go in?" She immediately grasped Jim's arm.

The agents were more than a little surprised when P.T. Ordway did not renew his courtship of Jim West as a performer in his show. Instead he talked about show business in general, touching briefly on his career as a stage performer, and displaying a good knowledge of the acting career of Artemus Gordon. Perhaps the closest Ordway came to attempting to change the agents' minds about joining his show was when he asked Artemus if he ever missed his life as a performer.

Artie admitted that he sometimes thought about those days with fondness. "I certainly enjoyed the accolades I received. However, it was another lifetime ago. I could never settle into that routine again."

Ordway also expressed his admiration of the famous actress Lily Fortune, smilingly admitting that he knew she was Mr. Gordon's betrothed. All in all, he was quite a different man than the bombastic, aggressive, overconfident one they had encountered previously… which only served to increase the suspicions of both agents.

Mrs. White's behavior continued to be slightly more obvious. She was seated next to Jim, and her attention was focused almost entirely on him, again not overly flirtatious, but definitely admiring and inviting. Artie noticed the senator's glance fall rather sharply on his wife from time to time, but he did not say anything. If he was jealous, he was wise enough to keep it private for now. Or else he approved of the motives for the flirtation.

When the excellent meal was completed, they stayed just long enough to enjoy a glass of port with the senator and the showman. Even in the small study that was apparently White's sanctuary, the conversation remained decidedly neutral. Jim had fully expected that Ordway would renew his efforts at some point, and he was also surprised that White did not bring up the Harkness business.

Despite being urged to remain longer, they departed after about half an hour, pointing out that they had a long ride back to their quarters on the train, and also they had a job to do. Jessamyn White came to see them off, grasping Jim's arm as they moved down the paved walkway toward the post where their horses were waiting. Because of her attachment to him, Jim moved slightly more slowly than his partner. He was barely at the gate that opened through the low fence when Artemus mounted his chestnut.

Jim saw the flash off in the distance out of the corner of his eye, heard the report of the shot simultaneously, and at almost the same instant, Artemus cried out and rocked in the saddle, gripping his left arm with his right hand. Shoving the woman aside, Jim immediately leaped forward, pulling Artie to the ground and inside the fence before he himself took off toward the spot where he saw the flash, jerking the small pistol from inside his jacket as he ran.

The shot had come from a grove of oak and cottonwood trees, and as Jim approached, he heard the sound of a horse retreating from the far side. The grove was perhaps a hundred yards wide; by the time he reached the clearing beyond, the horseman was long gone. Cursing himself for not taking the time to mount his own horse when he began the pursuit, Jim strode back to the White home.

Artie was still sitting on the ground, his jacket removed, with the housekeeper kneeling beside him, wrapping a towel around his bleeding arm. Both Ordway and White stood by, but not Mrs. White. The senator briefly stated that his wife had become faint at the sight of blood and had retreated inside. The housekeeper's son had been sent for the doctor.

"It's nothing, Jim," Artie assured him as his partner knelt down. "Deep crease is all. Find anything?"

"No. Too dark to see anything. He was on his horse and riding off before I even got there. I'll take a look around in the morning." Neither of them wanted to discuss the situation with both Ordway and White present. _Twice_. That word kept echoing in Jim's head. Twice now, someone had ambushed Artemus. The first time fate had intervened when he dropped the piece of paper. This time, perhaps darkness, or Artie's movement while mounting had saved him from a more serious wound. _But who? And why?_

Dr. Neff proved to be a no-nonsense man in his fifties. The housekeeper had led them to the kitchen, where the doctor cleaned and bandaged the wound, then placed Artemus's arm in a sling, despite the agent's protests. "You'd better be wearing that when I next see you," he barked.

Sheriff Floyd Lyon arrived soon after the doctor, listened to Jim's description of the incident, and agreed that little could be done in the dark. He was as puzzled as Jim. "It surely sounds like someone is targeting Mr. Gordon. Got any ideas?" They were on the front porch.

"None. I telegraphed Washington earlier asking if any known criminals are in this area, especially one that might have sworn vengeance against Mr. Gordon. Or me. So far, no results."

The sheriff grimaced. "We might not know till we catch the guy."

After agreeing to meet Jim at the grove of trees in the morning, the sheriff rode back to town. Jim returned to the kitchen, where the doctor was cleaning up and Artemus had resumed his jacket.

"Mr. West," White turned to Jim as he entered, "I've just been trying to convince Mr. Gordon that he should spend the night and rest his arm. You are welcome as well."

"I'm fine, Jim," Artie put in quickly. "I can ride."

Jim hesitated just an instant. He knew Artemus did not want to remain here any more than he did. "Thank you, Senator, but I believe we'll return to the train. A man always rests better in his own bed."

"But that sniper might be out there still!" P.T. Ordway protested. "I think you are foolish to risk your lives. For that matter, I don't understand why the two of you persist in this dangerous profession!"

Artie got to his feet, conscious of his injured arm, which was still painful. "It's our job, Mr. Ordway. But thank you for your concern." He hoped he kept sarcasm from his tone and face. Looking around, he found Dr. Neff eyeing him. "I'm fine, doctor."

"Yes, I can see that." The physician's tone dripped with irony as he recognized how his patient was using sheer will to keep himself steady; the doctor was quite aware of shock after such an injury. "Mr. West, I'll rely on you to prevent your friend from overdoing it. I'll want to see him again."

"I'll see to that," Jim assured him.

Although Jessamyn White had not come to the kitchen, she was in the foyer waiting to see her guests off. After a brief expression of concern for the wounded man, she turned to Jim, brown eyes wide. "Mr. West, I do hope you will take care! I would feel so awful if something were to happen to you. I wish you'd leave this terrible job!"

Jim merely nodded to her, escorting Artie out to his horse and assisting him to mount. He then climbed into the black's saddle and they started off at a gentle walk, until Artie complained it would be breakfast time before they reached the Wanderer. He was feeling better all the time, he insisted, and set the pace at a faster lope.

At the train, Artemus reluctantly obeyed his partner's command to head for his compartment while Jim took care of the horses. He was weary and his arm was throbbing. The doctor had given him several packets of powder to help subdue the pain, and he knew he should take advantage of it in order to get a good night's sleep, but was reluctant to do so.

When Jim came in, Artie had removed his jacket and shirt but was having a problem removing his boots. Without a word, Jim knelt and began tugging on one. "What do you think?"

Artie sighed. "I don't know what to think, James. I don't like to think I'm that important that anyone is out to get me. Yet…"

"Yet, it's happened twice." Jim tossed one boot aside and began on the other. He did not want to jerk too hard lest he jarred Artie and caused pain in the arm. "Both times, the bushwhacker had opportunity to include me—either before or after—and he chose to target you." He got to his feet and looked down at his partner. "You going to be all right?"

Artie sighed. "Would you bring me some water? I think I'd better take one of Doc Neff's powders."

Jim did not smile though he felt like it. The arm must have been hurting pretty badly for Artie to yield to the sedation. "It's too late to contact the department, but first thing in the morning I'll see what they've got."

W*W*W*W*W

Jim was at the telegraph key when Artemus entered the varnish car. Jim barely glanced up as he recorded the incoming message on the pad in front of him. Artie listened, his frown increasing. "No one?"

Jim tapped out the acknowledgment and leaned back in his chair. "The only man they know of is that fellow you arrested in Seattle two years ago for trying to steal your horse. He was released two weeks ago."

Artie nodded. "I remember him. He was more angry that he got caught, not so much who caught him."

"But he still threatened to do you bodily harm. However, he is currently in Spokane, preparing for his wedding."

"So she waited for him as she promised. That's nice." Artie sank onto the sofa. "Would you… mind getting me some coffee?"

"Are you sure you want to risk it? _I_ made it," Jim warned, getting to his feet and grinning toward his partner.

"I know. But that might be better. The powder left my head fuzzy. The tar you brew may help."

Jim went to the galley, filled a cup for his partner and refreshed his own, bringing both back to the parlor car, where he took the seat at the desk again. "Artie, something else is going on here."

"Such as?"

"That's just it, I don't know. Appearances suggest that White got us here on false pretexts in order to put us in contact with Ordway again. But why would he? Still no information on a connection between the two of them."

"It just seems so unlikely, Jim. Ordway has been in show business since he was a youth, in one form or another. White, while his background is not exactly savory, does not appear to have any connection with the stage in any form. What I can't figure is how White expected to get away with it for long. You'd think he would have come up with something better than accusing a respectable man of treason. He should have known we wouldn't stay around long."

"Long enough to meet Ordway again."

Artie sipped his coffee and barely prevented himself from making a face. He had tried a number of times to instruct his partner on how to brew coffee properly, but Jim simply could not master it. Still, it was coffee, and he needed it. "I was amazed that Ordway did not try any more convincing last night."

"Yeah. Out of respect for the Whites? Or to put me off guard?"

Artie made a sound of bewilderment, but did not speak. He was not wearing the sling and was a bit surprised that Jim had not mentioned it. _Perhaps that shows just how bothered he is by all of this. Fact is, I am too. Do we give it up or…_ He then spoke his thoughts out loud. "What do you think? Do we stick around?"

Jim shook his head. "I'd sure like to find the bastard who's targeting you."

"True. I don't like the idea he could follow us around until he completes the job."

"But why here, Artie? Did he follow us? Is it just happenstance, he—whoever he is—was here already and saw you?"

Artemus shook his head. "Of course, it could be a relative or good friend of someone I offended."

"Thus we would have no idea what he looks like" Jim grumbled. "Artie, I think you…"

Artie lifted his right hand, and winced slightly with the twinge the sudden movement caused in his left arm. "I'm not hiding out here on the train, Jim. Besides, Dr. Neff wants to see me today. Remember?"

"I could bring him out here…"

"I repeat: I'm not hiding. You know as well as I do that the best thing is to bring the shooter out into the open. The only way to accomplish that is if I'm in the open as well."

Jim did not like the idea, but he knew the truth of it. He also knew that he had exposed himself to similar dangers a time or two. Artemus was right. If they did not track down this ambusher here, chances were good he could follow them. "All right. But you stay inside until this afternoon at least. Rest. I'm going into town, but I'll come back around noon and we can go in together."

"Yes, mother," Artie sighed. Arguing with his hardheaded partner would be futile at this point. Beyond that, he knew that relaxing for another few hours would be a good thing. "How about some breakfast?"

"You want _me_ to fix your breakfast?"

"I'm an invalid, James."

Jim got to his feet again. "All right. But no complaints. You asked for it!"

W*W*W*W*W

Is there a crime

Beneath the roof of heaven, that stains the soul

Of man, with more infernal hue, than damn'd

Assassination?

—Colley Cibber (1671-1757), English poet, dramatist, and actor

He was dozing on the sofa when he heard the sound. Unsure what the noise was, he lay still a long moment, listening. A glance toward the windows revealed the hour was not quite noon yet, probably a half hour or more away. _Could be Jim…_

He did not think so, however. Jim would likely tie his horse at the rear platform, and come right through that door, with no reason to hesitate. Any member of the crew would have knocked on the parlor door before coming in. No, whatever he heard was… stealthy. He thought it came from the rear platform, but was not absolutely sure.

Artemus had just started to pull himself, carefully with his uninjured arm, to a sitting position, when he saw the shadow against the frosted glass of the door. He also clearly saw the silhouette of a drawn gun.

_Why didn't I put my gun in a handier spot!_ The gun and holster rig were hanging on the back of a chair at the end of the sofa where his feet had been.

The door opened swiftly, and just as quickly, Artie rolled onto the floor. Two shots reverberated in the close confines of the car. His arm pounding with agony, he was just about to push himself back to his feet and make a try for the gun, when he heard shouts from outside. The dark shadow of a man near the door heard it as well. He spun, clattered down the metal steps, and a moment later, Artemus heard the retreating horse.

Orrin Cobb burst through the door from the galley, a shotgun in his hands. Outside, Artie heard more shouts and the sound of a rifle. "Mr. Gordon!" Orrin cried, hurrying to assist him in getting back up onto the sofa. "Are you all right?"

"I wasn't shot again, if that's what you mean. Orrin, you or one of the boys take my horse and go get Jim. He's in town. Hurry."

W*W*W*W*W

"Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore.

— _Don Juan_ (canto IV, st. 12), Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron; 1788-1824), English poet

Jim leapt off his skidding horse before it came to a complete halt, and did not stop to tie the steed off, racing up the steps to the platform and into the varnish car. "Artie…!"

His partner waved to him wearily from the sofa. He had his arm in a sling again. "I'm all right, Jim. He missed."

"What the devil happened?"

Briefly Artemus related the incident. "He made just enough noise to rouse me, thank God. He must have known I was here alone. Either he was watching the train, or he saw you in town."

Jim grabbed the chair that had been used to hang the gun belt from—the belt was now lying beside Artemus on the sofa—and swung it around to straddle it. "Damn, Artie. This is getting serious!"

Artie's brows lifted. "It wasn't before?"

Jim made a wry face. "You know what I mean. The first two times seemed as though he was simply taking advantage of an opportunity, although it appeared he followed us to White's last night. But this time—he deliberately came after you, Artie. You didn't get a good look at him?"

"No." Artie shook his head. "It happened too fast. A pretty good-sized man, I think. He seemed to fill up the doorway, but that may have been my imagination. Kelly got a shot off at him, but thinks he missed—and he also did not get a good look."

"Lyon and I tried to trail the horse from that stand of trees this morning. Followed him maybe a mile, but then he hit the main road. We stopped at a couple of houses to ask if anyone saw him. One fellow allowed as how he had heard a horse going by at a fast clip, but because the horse kept going, he didn't get out of bed to look. Who is this guy, Artie?"

"Don't look at me! I'm only on the receiving end!" He shifted his position slightly to make himself more comfortable, and in doing so, exposed part of his arm that the sling had been covering.

"Artie! That's bleeding…"

"Just a little, Jim. I'm all right. I'll get it rewrapped when I go into town."

Jim gazed at him a long moment, eyes narrowing. Then he jumped to his feet, walked toward the rear door that was standing ajar. For a long moment he stared out, then turned back to face his partner. "Artie, someone wants you dead… and I think we should oblige them."

Artemus gaped at his partner.

W*W*W*W*W

Jim West's black horse was lathered and dust sprayed from under his hooves as he galloped up the street of Arapaho Creek to the sheriff's office. He sprang out of the saddle and dashed inside. In just a few minutes, he was out again and mounting, this time heading for the home of the doctor. Folks on the street saw Sheriff Floyd Lyon emerge grim-faced from his office and mount his own horse, heading out of town, and a short while later, Dr. Neff was in his buggy, following West at a fast pace in the same direction the sheriff had taken.

Nearly two hours later, the doctor and sheriff returned, their faces extremely sober. Sheriff Lyon left the doctor at his home and went on to the shop of Franz Gerlach, the saddle maker and carpenter. A short while later, Gerlach's wagon was seen leaving town, a mournfully long box in the bed behind him.

The story began to circulate then as the sheriff spoke to a couple of prominent citizens, including Senator White. One of the two Secret Service agents—the one who had been shot at in the street and wounded last night at the senator's house—had been murdered as he slept in the agents' private train. He had been alive when his partner returned to the train, but expired before the doctor could reach him.

Senator Wallace White expressed his outrage, as well as sympathy toward the bereaved partner. "They were friends," he told the owner of the mercantile. "I saw that friendship. It's hard to lose a friend like that."

P.T. Ordway emerged from the hotel and was horrified to hear the news. He shook his head. "I can't help but say this. Just a couple days ago I told those young men they were in a dangerous business. This is terrible. Terrible!"

The town of Arapaho Creek had a small church and an adjoining cemetery, but not a full-time minister. Agent Jim West asked that the coffin be interred in the cemetery the following morning. He would later arrange for it to be taken to Washington for an official service. For now, his only purpose was to find the man who had murdered his partner.

Senator White and his wife, as well as P.T. Ordway attended the brief ceremony. Mrs. White was particularly attentive to the grieving partner, inviting him to her home at any time he wanted company. Jim thanked her gravely, and also expressed his gratitude to the others who had come.

"Artemus Gordon was a special man," he said, somberly, "and a special friend. I know I'll never find another one like him."

Jim went to the sheriff's office with Lyon, and as soon as the door was closed, sank into a chair with a deep sigh, dropping his hat on the floor beside him. "I don't know how Artie does it. He can play another role for hours—even days."

Floyd Lyon went to the potbelly stove in the corner and poured two cups of coffee, bringing one back to the agent. "Looks like they are buying it."

Jim accepted the cup with a nod of thanks. "Yeah, so far. Problem is, we're not one hundred percent certain that either White or Ordway are behind it. Could well be the man after Artie was doing it on his own."

"If that's the case, he's probably long gone, or soon will be, once he learns he apparently accomplished his purpose."

"Probably gone anyway, if he was a hired killer." Jim sipped the coffee. It was almost as good as what Artie brewed. "I am truly appreciative of your help, sheriff, as well as for the cooperation of Dr. Neff and Mr. Gerlach."

"And they are entirely trustworthy, Mr. West. They won't let on what's happening. When will Mr. Gordon come into town?"

"Tomorrow. The train is taking him north so that he can catch the stage, and return on it. If anyone notices the train moved on, I'll tell them they had to go get fuel. They'll be back by tomorrow too. I appreciate you putting me up for the night as well."

"That's no problem. The big problem is going to be keeping up the pretense in front of my wife. She hadn't met Mr. Gordon, of course, but I had told her about both of you."

The rap on the door caused Lyon to go open it to admit Merrill Harkness, who quickly extended his hand to Jim. "Mr. West, I heard the news. I'm very, very sorry. Mr. Gordon was a fine man. Is there anything I can do?"

Jim assumed his sorrowful mien again. "Thank you, Mr. Harkness. It's up to me now. I have to find the murderer." He disliked deceiving the rancher, but doing so was necessary at this time.

"No one saw him?"

Jim shook his head. "The train crew heard the shots, saw a man riding away. But he was gone so fast they couldn't even get a good look at the horse. They didn't realize how badly Mr. Gordon was hit and sent for me. I returned to town for the doctor but by the time we got back… it was too late."

Harkness sighed heavily. "It's a terrible thing. Just terrible. I've lost friends. I know how hard it is."

After Jim refused Harkness's offer of a place to stay, expressing his gratitude, the rancher departed. "I'd better make a show of looking for the killer," Jim told the sheriff, "although it may be much too late and could have been too late the minute he rode away from the train, whether he was hired or acted out of revenge. I suspect he believed he'd hit his target, because Artie went to the floor."

"Do you think all this play-acting is going to work?"

Jim could only shake his head. "I don't know. Depends on who's behind it. If we're right, this might bring him—or them—out in the open. If we're wrong… well, no harm done, I guess."

"What beats me is why Senator White would want Mr. Gordon dead! Or Ordway for that matter."

"I don't know," Jim said again. "Maybe we'll find out."

W*W*W*W*W

_Pour tromper un rival l'artifice est permis; on peut tout employer contre ses ennemis._

[Artifice is allowable in deceiving a rival; we may employ everything against our enemies.]  
—_ Les Tuileries, _Armand Jean du Plessis Duc de Richelieu (1585-1642), French cardinal and statesman

The following midday Jim was in the saloon, which also served meals, enjoying a sandwich, when he heard the stagecoach pass by the building on the street. Almost at that same moment, P.T. Ordway entered the saloon—with Vivian La Belle on his arm. They paused at the door, Ordway removing his hat as he gazed around the room, which was half filled. Spotting Jim, he led the woman across the room. Without asking, he held a chair for the woman, attired this day in a deep maroon that was less flashy than what she had worn in Kansas. Her smile toward Jim was sad, sympathetic—and also, Jim thought, as though she wished she were somewhere else.

"Excuse us, Mr. West, for intruding, but I'm going to have to go back to my show soon, and I wanted to be sure I spoke to you before I did. I'm sure you remember Miss La Belle."

Jim nodded briefly to the woman. He had vaguely wondered previously why she was not with Ordway here in Arapaho Creek. When had she arrived, and how? "What's on your mind, Ordway?"

"I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am about your partner. I was telling Viv earlier, I almost feel guilty because I didn't persuade the two of you to leave your dangerous jobs."

"It was certainly not your fault. My partner and I have been chasing criminals for many years. One of them came after Mr. Gordon."

"Well, maybe, but…"

Before the showman could go any further, a man who had just entered the saloon and gone to speak to the bartender was striding toward the table. "Mr. West! I say, Mr. West! I've been looking all over for you!"

He was a man with a rather large stomach, bushy mutton-chop whiskers, a rather bulbous nose, and attired like a gentlemen, carrying a gold-knobbed cane. His accent was distinctly British.

"I'm West," Jim said mildly, gazing up at him. "What can I do for you?"

The newcomer grabbed a chair from another table and pulled it close to Jim's, seating himself and leaning toward the agent, seeming not to even notice the other occupants of the table. "Mr. West, my name is Philo Kirkby, of Kirkby, Pratt and Parsley, owners of the finest traveling show in all of Great Britain. I have been traveling the American West, seeking performers for our exhibition. I want to employ you as an artist in the use of firearms."

"Wait a minute…" Ordway tried to break in.

Kirkby leaned closer to Jim. "I am prepared to offer you a fine salary, Mr. West. I've known of your exploits for some time. I was acquainted with the late Sir Nigel Scott. I know how you and Mr. Gordon helped him break up Callander's gang in London, not to mention your adventures in your native land. I believe you can be a major star in our show."

"In England?" Jim exclaimed in obvious amazement.

"Yes, indeed. England, Scotland, Ireland… on the Continent as well. Yes, indeed, a star of great magnitude. And wealth."

"Wait a minute," Ordway repeated, "Mr. West is obligated to me!"

Kirkby turned a jaundiced eye toward Ordway, as though seeing him for the first time. "Obligated to you? Are you the President of the United States, sir?"

Ordway stiffened. "I, sir, am the owner of the P.T. Ordway Circus and Extravaganza, finest traveling exposition in the world!"

Kirkby lifted his sizeable nose. "Never heard of you, sir." With barely a glance toward Vivian, he turned his attention back to Jim. "Now, Mr. West, as I was saying… you would be an international star, with suitable compensation, of course. Playing before the crowned heads of Europe…"

Again Ordway expostulated, his face reddening. "I never heard of you, Kirkby!"

"And do you travel extensively in Europe, sir?"

Jim leaned back in his chair, a bemused expression on his face. "Gentlemen, I must admit it's rather interesting to have a battle fought over me, but you are both premature. I have work to do here, and currently my services are engaged by the federal government."

"Of course, of course," Kirkby beamed. "But will you allow me to discuss this with you further?"

"I suppose so. Actually the idea of Europe is rather appealing right now. Thank you."

Kirkby rose and bowed slightly, only now acknowledging the woman's presence with a nod. "I will take accommodations at the local hostel. Call on me at any time."

Jim gazed after him thoughtfully until Ordway spoke rather sharply. "Mr. West, I believe I have first rights to your services."

"I don't recall signing any contract, nor even an option to do so." Jim picked up his sandwich.

"Well, you… you owe it to your country. To Mr. Gordon. Would he want you to gallivant off to Europe?"

"Mr. Gordon is gone," Jim spoke softly.

Ordway glared at Vivian now, whereupon she reached across the table to touch Jim's hand as it rested near his glass, speaking for the first time. "I am so very, very sorry, Mr. West. Please let me know if I can do anything to comfort you in this time of your bereavement."

Jim did not laugh at the obviousness of her gesture, though he felt like it. "Thank you." Again he had the impression that she was not here willingly.

Ordway's demeanor immediately changed, his face displaying almost exaggerated sorrow. "I am aware of your loss, and I'm terribly sorry. That—that British chap got my dander up, I'm afraid. I'm sure that without your good friend, you must be considering another career. Or you should be."

"I've thought about a leave of absence," Jim admitted.

"Excellent idea! I will be happy to present a contract for, let's say, six months. That would give you time to realize that a career in show business is much preferable. And come to think of it, wouldn't such a career be a tribute to your late partner? Mr. Gordon had quite a successful, if rather short, career on the stage."

"That's true, isn't it." Jim gazed toward the door through which Kirkby had exited. "Europe, though, is very tempting."

Ordway leaned toward him. "We need never put on a show in this part of Wyoming. Nothing that would remind you of the tragedy."

Jim nodded. "That might help. But I wonder if I don't need to get away. Far away."

Ordway got to his feet. "Just promise me one thing, Mr. West. Promise me you will not accept any other offer without allowing me to match, or better it."

"I'll think about it."

Ordway nodded shortly then strode out the door, Vivian almost trotting to keep up with him. Jim quickly rose and went just to the door, where he saw the pair crossing the street—and entering Wallace White's office.

W*W*W*W*W

Jim returned to town from the train close to midnight, grateful that the moon was big and bright enough to light his travels. He made his way to the rear of the small hotel, tied off the horse, and then picked the lock on the back door. He had been able to take a look at the hotel's register earlier that day, when he entered the lobby ostensibly to ask the clerk about room rates, but had lucked out in that the small lobby was empty. So he had obtained the information he needed without calling attention to his presence.

Now he crept up the rear stairs, which were completely dark. After going through the door at the top, he found that lamps in sconces along the wall illuminated the hallway. The lamps were turned very low, but provided enough light to see the numbers on the doors. At number four, he paused and knocked softly. The door opened almost immediately and he slipped inside.

"How'd it go?" Artemus Gordon stepped back to turn up the wick on the lamp sitting on the bureau. He had removed the fake nose and the body padding, his now loose trousers held in place by suspenders, but still wore the whiskers.

"Pretty well, I think. When you left, Ordway started sputtering about having first dibs on my services. When I wouldn't give him a definitive answer, he left and hurried to White's office. You noticed the lovely Vivian, I presume."

"Yes, I did. Where did she come from?"

"I have no idea. It's possible that Ordway's troupe is camped reasonably nearby. Never thought to even inquire."

"Seems Ordway doesn't want to count on only the lovely Mrs. White to turn your head and has brought in reinforcements."

Jim sighed. "Could be. How's your arm?"

"It's fine. How were my services, by the way?"

Jim grinned. "I think the aforementioned lovely Mrs. White shed a tear or two."

"Ah, isn't that nice? What next, Jim?"

"I think Mr. Kirkby had better be very zealous in his pursuit of my name on a contract. And I'll continue to let it be known that the idea of leaving the country is very attractive to me. Artie, I think I know now why you were targeted."

"Oh?"

"Ordway got it into his head that if something happened to you, I would be more willing to resign from the department."

"Hmm. Would you?"

"Are you kidding? Give up all my benefits and my pension?" Jim grinned.

Artie laughed, then sobered. "But we still don't know why—and if—White would be conspiring with Ordway."

Jim shook his head. "Washington is still trying to track Ordway's past down. Apparently he was married at one time, but thus far they haven't even been able to find the wife's name, or if there were any children."

Artie frowned. "White doesn't look anything like Ordway."

"I know. Ordway must have something on the senator, something that would be damaging to White's political career."

"Other than his own lies and underhanded tactics, you mean?"

"Yeah. Otherwise the only information they've come up with concerns Ordway's debts, and how he has eluded his creditors over the years. He did spend a short time in a local jail in Maryland for assaulting one of those creditors. I'd better get back to the train. I'll send some more inquiries in the morning before coming to town. I'll probably have lunch in the saloon again, in case Mr. Kirkby wants to come by."

"He'll be there," Artie promised. "Maybe we can stir up some action. Not too much, mind you. I was a big enough target as Artemus Gordon. I don't really want Philo Kirkby to be one as well."

Jim departed quietly. Artie locked the room door behind him then sat down on the bed, not yet considering retiring for the night. They had discussed the possible danger to "Philo Kirkby" when making the plans, and Jim had worried about that part. However, Artie knew that the idea had been a good one. They had to find out if Ordway or White, or both, were involved in the attempts to kill him, and if so, why.

_The idea that someone thought Jim would be more amenable to become a performer in a wild west show if I was out of the way occurred to me earlier, but I did not want to mention it to Jim. I'm glad he came up with it on his own. _Artie knew that the answer could still be that someone was out for revenge against him. However, Ordway's behavior in the saloon when competition appeared seemed to mean their ideas were on track.

Vivian La Belle's reappearance was interesting. Surely Ordway did not believe she could influence Jim. She had been rather quiet today, at least while Philo Kirkby was present. _I wonder if Jim noticed her reticence. She wanted to be anywhere but in Arapaho Creek!_

Artie could understand why Ordway would want a man like Jim West in his show. With his "Extravaganza" in deep difficulties financially, Jim's fame as a lawman would draw customers, and his skills would bring even more. The tale of how he split a nail on the axe had spread as a legend. Not all of "General Grimm's" henchmen (and women) had been taken into custody. Chances were good that those who evaded capture had related the story. Even those that were caught and convicted could have told the tale in prison.

Artemus Gordon knew that performing that feat had been harder on his partner than it had on him. As he had mentioned to Colonel Richmond at a later time, "All he could do was kill me. If he had missed, I would be dead, and beyond worrying about it. But if that had happened, he would have had to live with the knowledge." He had also told the colonel he had not been concerned for an instant. If anyone could make that incredible shot, Jim West was the man.

Pure fate, it seemed, had been responsible for the feat in Kansas being witnessed by the one man who could see it only as a way to make a profit, not as a desperate attempt by one man to save the life of his friend. Artemus knew his partner well enough to realize that Jim had been well aware of all the ways the exploit could have gone wrong. As he had told Jim just after the incident, he had figured Jim would do something. He would not stand by and allow Wes Watson to call the shots, knowing that Watson would leave Artemus Gordon dead in the road as soon as he felt he was safe enough to continue on alone.

Had P.T. Ordway not been in that town on that particular day, the incident would have become a local tale, perhaps spreading slowly as had the axe-splitting shot. But Ordway had been there and had witnessed it. Apparently that fact had brought them to this Wyoming town with Ordway ostensibly conspiring with White to encourage, if not force, Jim West to sign on with Ordway's show. And to gain that end, it seemed, Ordway was willing to murder.

W*W*W*W*W

Philo Kirkby strolled into the saloon the following day. Spotting James West seated at a table along the far wall, Kirkby nodded in his direction, but continued to the bar where he asked for a beer. He was just paying for it when he became aware of a man who had come up close behind him. So close that the man's bulk was pressing Kirkby to the bar.

Artie glanced in the mirror and saw the scarred face of the man behind him; a man with a large chest and broad shoulders. _Similar to the shape of the fellow who shot at me in the varnish car._ With a forced smile, he picked up his drink and tried to slip sideways. The man moved with him.

"Oh, I say! Excuse me, sir," he said, using Kirkby's British accent, "you may have this space if you so desire it. Only allow me freedom to move away."

"We don't like your kind around here," came the growling response. A beefy hand grabbed Artemus's shoulder, pushing him sideways, causing him not only to stumble, but to also slosh most of his beer, some of it splashing on his assaulter.

"Oh, I say!" Artie cried, holding onto his pose by the hardest. "That's not very polite!"

Now a second man moved up, not as bulky as the first one, but with a sneer that was just as ugly. "You heard what my friend said. We don't want your kind here."

Artemus sniffed, straightening his shoulders as he put his nearly empty glass on the bar and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his hands. "I was told this is a free country." He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, but did not turn his head.

"For some," the big man said, "but not for you. I say you need to get out of town right away."

"Even if I was of a mind to do so, my understanding is the coach will not arrive for two days."

"You got feet doncha?"

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Jim West spoke in a mild tone. "Thank you for entertaining my guest, but our table is waiting. Mr. Kirkby?"

Jim put his hand on Artie's arm to extricate him from between the two men. "Just a minute!" the big fellow growled. "We ain't through talking to the dude yet."

"I'm afraid you are," Jim responded in the same quiet voice.

The slighter man was the one to make the first move, grabbing for Jim's arm, apparently with the idea of pushing him away. Instead Jim lifted his hand that was holding Artie's arm and blocked the move with bone-on-bone contact. While somewhat painful to both men, the recipient got the worst of it because he was not expecting it. Grabbing his arm, he took a couple of steps back.

The big fellow waded in then, with a roundhouse swing of a hammy fist toward Jim's head. Jim ducked it easily and slammed his own fist into the midriff of the big man, eliciting an "oof!" but little else, as the beefy man swung with the other hand. This one clipped the edge of Jim's chin as he ducked back, and the slight contact was enough to cause Jim to stumble back, grabbing a chair at a table for support.

He knew this one was not going to go down easy. Artie had deftly turned to trip the other man when he started to rejoin the fray with a charge toward Jim. When the man staggered, Artie slammed a hard fist to the back of his head, sending him to his knees, dazed for the moment. Artie turned to watch the confrontation between Jim and the big one, ready to pull the pistol hidden under his coat if necessary. However, he would give Jim his chance at some fun first.

The big fellow charged toward Jim, arms spread, obviously intending to seize his opponent in a crippling bear hug, showing more agility than his size would indicate. But Jim easily sidestepped the move, again pounding a fist into the midriff, with more power behind it. The big man felt it, letting out a louder "oof!" and bending forward slightly. This time Jim slammed his balled hand into his opponent's chin, and again, staggered him. But the big boy did not go down, charging forward and swinging wildly with both hands.

Artie reacted, reaching inside his coat, when he saw how one of those fists connected with Jim's shoulder, sending the lighter-weight agent sprawling. But he stayed his hand as Jim bounced back to his feet, this time grabbing that same chair that had supported him earlier, picking it up, and swinging it toward his opponent's head. A leg and part of the wooden seat caught the side of the head. The massive man staggered back, clutched the side of the bar for a moment, then sank to the floor, leaning against the side of the bar, not completely unconscious, but eyes glazed and unmoving for the moment.

"Well done, sir," Artie crowed in his best upper class British voice. "May I buy you a drink, Mr. West?"

"You may, " Jim panted, straightening his coat sleeves and brushing his mussed hair back.

The bartender would not let Mr. Kirkby pay for the drinks, apologizing first that he had been accosted in his place of business, and then expressing his appreciation that Mr. West had taught "Gussy Guzman" a lesson—with minimal damage to the saloon's furniture. The chair had not broken. "Do you want me to send for the sheriff?" he asked as he put two fresh glasses of beers on the counter.

Both Jim and Mr. Kirkby told him that was not necessary at this point. They retreated to Jim's table, positioning themselves so that they could keep a wary eye on the two men still on the floor. Other customers were settling back and buzzing among themselves regarding what they had just witnessed. Quite obviously, Gussy Guzman was known in the area and not particularly liked.

"Jim," Artie spoke in a low voice, "I'll give you odds that the big guy is the one who tried to shoot me in the car."

Jim nodded. "I wondered, considering what little description you were able to give."

"I'll also wager that they were watching for Philo Kirkby today, with instructions to discourage him from talking to you." He reached inside his coat and took out several sheets of paper, noticing that the smaller man had now pulled himself to his feet and was glaring in their direction as he clung to the bar for support.

Putting his finger on the paper that he placed on the table in front of Jim, Artie pretended to be pointing something out. "Maybe we can give him something to report back to Ordway—or White—about."

Jim nodded, gazing at the paper with interest, not smiling when he noticed it was a page from a report written from a previous case dealing with Dr. Loveless. "Need to do something to force their hands."

"You mean something more than them trying to knock my block off?" Artie tapped on the paper as though emphasizing a point.

"Yeah, I'm afraid so. Nothing from the department this morning regarding a connection between Ordway and White. We're going to require more than our hunch that they are working together."

Artie heaved an exaggerated sigh. "The things we do in the name of law and order." He glanced toward the bar. "Gussy is waking up. He's not going to be happy with you, James."

"I wasn't trying to win a popularity contest," Jim muttered. He had learned a long time ago to do whatever was necessary in a fight to come out on top. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it did not. The fact that Guzman outweighed him by seventy to eighty pounds, at the least, was a factor in grabbing the chair to stop the fight quickly.

"They're both watching now," Artie said, picking up the paper to fold and replace inside his coat. "Let's shake hands as though on a deal, and I'll amble on out of here." He got to his feet.

Jim followed suit, extending his hand. "Stay alert, Artie. By the way, I ran into the lovely Mrs. White this morning and was invited to dinner again tonight."

Artie sighed. "I don't suppose I'm included."

"Sorry, no. You're dead, remember."

Artemus swallowed his grin, winking at his partner as he turned and headed toward the door, with one glance at the two glowering men at the bar. The risk that they would attack Jim now that he was alone was slight. Philo Kirkby was the target; Jim West was the prize.

Leaving the saloon, he crossed the street toward the hotel, casually looking around at rooftops and alleyways. _Maybe too early for an ambush to be set up. I suppose the threat of Gus and his pal was supposed to scare Kirkby out of town and away from Jim._ Artie knew his part was going to be a trifle boring for a while. He needed to stay in town, but as they had discussed when setting up the ploy, he should also remain out of sight as much as possible. This incident in the saloon emphasized that that portion of the scheme was a wise course.

As he entered the hotel, P.T. Ordway was descending the stairs. Ordway paused for an instant, then continued down. Artemus started to walk by him with a short nod of acknowledgment, but Ordway grabbed his arm. "Kirkby is it?"

Artemus paused, looking the other man up and down coolly. "That's correct. And you are?"

Ordway glared. "P.T. Ordway. I want you to understand that West is my property."

"Indeed? That's not the impression he gave me just now. In fact, I believe we have settled a deal. We shook hands on it."

Rage instantly overwhelmed the brief surprise on Ordway's round face. "That's not possible! I'll sue him! I'll sue you! I have first dibs on Jim West's services!"

"Sir, I asked him directly whether he had signed any other contract, or even an option for his services, and he said he had not. I'm of the impression that a man of Mr. West's reputation would not lie about such a matter."

"Where is he?" Ordway demanded, his complexion growing ruddier.

"I left him in the tavern across the way, but I cannot guarantee he is still there. You know, he's quite an amazing man. Two rowdies accosted me, became quite threatening. Mr. West stepped in and handled them as if they were toys. Indeed, he is going to be a sensation on the Continent." With a beaming smile of anticipation, Artie touched his hat and went on toward the stairs. Glancing back, he saw Ordway storming out the front door.

_Be ready, Jim!_

As he reached the second floor hallway, one of the doors opened and Vivian La Belle emerged. She hesitated an instant then came forward. "Mister, can I talk to you?"

Artie paused at his own doorway. "Madam?"

Her nervousness was overt as her hands twisted together. She also looked tired—and older—as though she may not have slept well. "Can we go in there?" Vivian nodded toward the door of his room.

Artemus hesitated a moment, then inserted his key and opened the door. She followed him in and closed the door securely before facing him, her back to the door. "Mr. Kirkby—is that your name?"

"That is indeed my name, madam. And you are?"

"Vivian La Belle. That's my show name anyway. Parny made me change my name and… Oh, but that's not why I'm here. I want to warn you."

"Warn me? About what?" Artie struck a pose of confusion. _This is interesting. Did Ordway send her here to try to frighten Kirkby off?_

"Mr. Ordway is real worried that Jim West might sign with your show."

"He has good reason for worry," Artie replied smugly. "I believe that as well."

Now she took a step forward. "Look, P.T. Ordway sent for me to come here on account of he wants me to try to seduce Jim West. He said he thinks Mrs. White ain't doing a good job of it and West might be on to her. Maybe Mr. West is too moral to get mixed up with a married woman, he figures. Now if I thought I had a chance, I would try it. Any breathing woman would. But look at me! I'm washed up. And I don't want no part of murder!"

Artie's eyes widened. "Murder? Mine?"

"Well, I don't think so. Not right away, anyhow. But that partner of Mr. West's…" She clamped her mouth shut, fear shadowing her eyes as she realized she was saying too much.

"Oh, I say. I did understand that his good friend was recently dead. Murdered, you say? I say!"

"Just listen to me, Mr. Kirkby. You don't want to get mixed up with Ordway and that boy of his. They have to get West into the show. They need the money he'll bring in. They need lots of money."

Artie desperately wanted to ask what she meant by "that boy of his," but his pose as the British showman precluded any knowledge of Senator White. He was also not entirely sure the lady's visit was not some kind of setup. "Er, aren't you risking trouble by talking to me about this?"

"I'll say! I'm leaving on the next stage. P.T. don't know it, but I'm clearing out. Like I said, I don't want no part of murder, even after the fact. Don't you tell him I talked to you!" Her eyes widened again.

"Never fear, madam. I'll not say a word."

Vivian heaved a sigh. "Makes me wonder about P.T., him being so scared of being haunted by those he done wrong to. Kind of shows how crazy and desperate he is, I guess, to be part of murder. He can't stand the thought of losing the Extravaganza. Mostly, I think he don't like being proved wrong. He had all these bad ideas and wrong moves. Only reason I stayed was he owes me money. Hasn't paid nobody in months!

"And most everybody else has deserted the show while P.T. was gone. Only ones left are the guys who can't get jobs nowhere else on account of the law might notice them. I can't take it anymore now. Not with killin'! Not even him being scared of the ghosts seems to stop him. I don't know what I'm going to be doing now, except gettin' as far away from P.T. Ordway as I can. You just be careful, mister. And don't sign Jim West! Not if you value your life!"

Before Artie could say anything further, she spun, grabbed the doorknob, and was gone.

W*W*W*W*W

Jim left the saloon almost on his partner's heels, crossing the street in the other direction to go to the sheriff's office. There he updated Floyd Lyon on the most recent occurrence. Lyon knew Gus Guzman. "Bad egg. Shows up here from time to time. I've heard rumors he has killed a man or two, but never had any real proof. Wouldn't surprise me that he might have been the one who shot Mr. Gordon that night—and tried to kill him on the train. The fellow with him is probably Art Brewer. They've been known to hang out together in the past."

"In a sense, it was lucky they were in the saloon, and were witnesses to 'Kirkby' sealing a deal with me. The word will get to Ordway I'm sure. And White if he is indeed involved."

Lyon shook his head. "Just doesn't make sense to me why Senator White would be tied in with this man Ordway. I mean, White isn't the most up-and-up politician you'd ever come across. He's the kind who'll do anything to win the vote, and has. He knows he's going to have a devil of a time winning the next election. I've heard that already a couple of men with better reputations are going to stand for the job. But I've never heard of White doing any killing!"

"We're not one hundred percent certain that White is conspiring with Ordway. It could all be a coincidence, him being in town at this time. Even showing up at White's house for supper the same night my partner and I were invited. In any case, it's not something we can overlook."

He told the sheriff his plans for the evening. "Here again, White could be simply being nice, due to the death of my partner, or he could be worried about what I might do in regard to his obviously false report that brought us here in the first place."

"Or it could have something to do with Ordway," Lyon added.

Jim just nodded. "That, too. I'm going back to the train and see if any new information is available. I probably won't be back until time to go to the Whites' home. We can't risk my contacting Artemus openly at the hotel, despite that we set it up to look as though I was ready to sign on with him. Artie's disguises are good, but we still don't want anyone looking too closely."

As he crossed the street toward the black horse tied there, Jim heard his name called. He recognized the voice, but turned slowly, as though puzzled. "Something I can do for you, Ordway?"

The showman hurried up to him, and the perspiration on his brow indicated he had been indulging in some exertion for a short while—perhaps searching for his quarry. "Mr. West, I need to talk to you. May I buy you a drink?"

Jim shook his head doubtfully. "I have to return to the train. I have a couple of letters to write."

"Oh… er… informing acquaintances regarding poor Mr. Gordon?"

"That, and I also need to place a formal request for a leave of absence. That idea of yours was a good one. I'll take six months off and see how I like living in England."

Ordway's mouth dropped open and he pulled it shut with great effort, smiling in a forced manner. "Now, Mr. West, you don't want to be too hasty. I'm sure you recall that I approached you first…"

"That's true. But I had no idea of leaving government employ until… until the death of my friend. Now I want to get as far away from here as possible." Jim affected a somber expression, and hoped Ordway saw it as grief.

"That's certainly understandable. But you mustn't be too hasty. Don't go to extremes. England is a long distance to travel. I'm sure you have other friends in this country…"

Jim shrugged. "I do. But I just feel the need of a change of climate."

"Surely simply changing your job would help. Poor Mr. Gordon probably regaled you with the tales of his days on the stage, the thrill of receiving applause and acclaim." Desperation was revealed in Ordway's eyes. "Don't you think Mr. Gordon would have urged you to stay here? To work for me?"

"I'm afraid we did not discuss it. You'll have to excuse me, Ordway. I have a lot to do."

"Wait…!"

Jim ignored the plea and continued toward his horse. He could almost feel Ordway's eyes boring into his back, but he did not look around, mounting and heading out of town in the direction of the train waiting on the siding. As soon as he entered the varnish car he found several telegraphed notes that engineer Orrin Cobb had recorded. They had informed Colonel Richmond of their plans so that in case word of Gordon's "death" somehow reached Washington, no one would be alarmed.

Perhaps the gravity of their plan impressed the colonel, because quite a bit of new information was waiting. Jim read them all, then sent some further questions east. He was just pulling out a new blank sheet of paper when Cobb pushed through the swinging door from the galley area.

"You get those messages I wrote, boss?"

"Got them, Orrin. Thanks."

"How are things going?"

"Well, things are proceeding. That's about all I can say. Ordway knows about 'Kirkby' and his offer to me, and I've allowed him to think I'm seriously considering going to Europe."

"Ain't it kind of dangerous for Mr. Gordon?"

"Perhaps. But you know, he thrives on danger." Jim grinned briefly, drawing a bemused smile from the engineer. "He's on his guard. But I have a notion that Ordway—and White, if he's involved—is aware that an attack on Mr. Kirkby would be highly suspicious at this point. They've got to come up with another plan. And maybe it's going to start tonight."

"How do you mean?"

"I'm going to the Whites for dinner again. I imagine they'll both try to persuade me to sign on with Ordway. And he may be there as well. I'm going to leave a note for Mr. Gordon at the hotel to tell him what's been learned."

Orrin crossed his arms on his chest, nodding toward the message he had recorded. "They still don't seem to know why this senator would be workin' with this circus guy."

"I know. That's really puzzling. Only thing I can come up with is that Ordway knows something that White doesn't want to make public. However, thus far, the department has been unable to even find an occasion when the two of them have been in the same state, let alone the same city—until now. No connection whatsoever."

"Well, I'm sure you and Mr. Gordon will figure it out. You always do."

Jim grinned up at the engineer. "Thanks for your vote of confidence, Orrin. With any luck, we'll finish this up in a couple of days and be able to pull out of here."

"We'll be ready!"

W*W*W*W*W

Artemus had his supper at the only eating-place in Arapaho Creek outside of the saloon, a restaurant owned by a Chinese family. They prepared their native dishes as well as "American" food, and did it well, he had discovered on previous visits. On this evening he was just starting to dine on a steaming platter of Hunan chicken when P.T. Ordway entered.

Ordway obviously had seen "Kirkby" enter the restaurant for he paused just a moment at the door, looked around at the occupied tables, then strode directly toward Artie's. Without offering a greeting or waiting for an invitation, Ordway pulled out the chair opposite Artie's and sat down.

"Kirkby, we have to talk."

Artemus lifted his chin so as to be able to look down his nose at the intruder. "I don't believe we have anything to talk about, Mr.…. er… Ogilvie, was it?"

"Ordway. Parnassus Tyrus Ordway. I want you to understand that Jim West is mine. I approached him first."

"It seems to me that Mr. West has other ideas about that."

Ordway's eyes narrowed. "Did he sign with you?"

"No. But as I informed you, we shook hands on a tentative arrangement. I know Mr. West is an honorable man. Mr. Ordway, if you don't mind…"

"Kirkby, I witnessed one of the most amazing feats of marksmanship ever performed. I saw West hang himself upside down and get off a shot to kill a man who was threatening his partner, when he had no time and no leeway to miss. I've got to have that man in my show!"

Artemus nodded mildly. "I heard the tale of that feat, which is only one of the reasons I sought Mr. West for _my_ exhibition. He will be a sensation." He continued to eat while the conversation proceeded, knowing that the appearance of a lack of interest would enrage Ordway further.

Ordway's complexion grew rosier. "Kirkby, listen. I'll pay you ten thousand dollars to forfeit any agreement you have with West."

Artie allowed his fork to pause, eyes widen slightly. "Indeed? When?"

Ordway cleared his throat. "Well… I don't have it now of course. But as soon as West performs a few shows, I'll have that and plenty more."

Now Artemus smiled, superciliously and condescendingly. "Really, Mr. Ordway. Why should I accept a mere ten thousand dollars when—as you freely admit—within a short while, I will have that as profit and more, with Mr. West in my show?"

Ordway slammed a fist onto the table. "I warn you, Kirkby! I'm not going to stand by and allow you to steal him out from under my nose!"

"I hardly think signing Mr. West to a legitimate contract is 'stealing,' Mr. Ordway. It's merely good business. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to finish my very excellent meal."

For a moment Ordway seemed about able to continue his tirade, but he glanced toward the restaurant's door, which had just opened. Sheriff Floyd Lyon entered, pausing there to look around. With a final glare toward the irritating Englishman, he rose and stalked out, almost bumping into the lawman. After a moment the sheriff came to Artie's table.

"I hope that fellow wasn't bothering you, Mr. Kirkby."

"Not at all, sheriff. Sit down and join me, won't you?" He waited while Lyon requested a cup of coffee from the waiter and it was served. "Ordway is a bit upset with me," he said then in a low voice.

"Thought so. I reckon he don't like the idea of you horning in, huh?"

"Not in the least. I think the plan may work, forcing Ordway to further measures to ensure signing Jim."

Lyon frowned. "Just so he don't decide to kill Mr. Kirkby like he did with Mr. Gordon."

"No, I think Jim is correct there. Ordway is hotheaded but he certainly knows his encounters with Kirkby have been public. A dozen witnesses right here could swear to his anger and threats. Only question is—or maybe it's questions—whether he's working alone or with White, as we suspect. Jim may learn more tonight."

"Yeah, he's goin' to White's for supper again, ain't he?"

"That's right. He left me a note at the hotel. Washington has not come up with a lot of information yet. Odd when one considers White has been in public life for the last ten to fifteen years. Almost as though he hid something in his past, perhaps re-created himself with a new name. But thus far, nothing has turned up."

"He's a slick one, all right. Really bamboozled a lot of people here, but like I told you before, it's not likely he's going to be reelected."

"I get the impression that White has big political ambitions—if not here, then elsewhere. He may reinvent himself again, if that's what he did in the first place. Surely would be strange for him to associate with Ordway, knowing Ordway's reputation and how damaging it could be to himself and his career."

Lyon chuckled. "Most 'specially if you're able to prove he was involved in trying to kill you!"

"Jim will be coming by to visit me before he goes back to the train tonight, so by tomorrow morning one of us will be able to tell you what he learned, if anything."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter Three**_

All sympathy not consistent with acknowledged virtue is but disguised selfishness.

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1771-1834), English poet and critic

The housekeeper admitted Jim into the White home, and escorted him to the first parlor, where the Senator and his lovely wife were waiting. Jessamyn immediately fussed over him, placing him on the settee and sitting alongside, keeping his hand in both of hers as she spoke of her sympathy over the loss of his close friend.

"We thought you'd need some company, Mr. West," Wallace White intoned. "It's not good to be alone at a time like this."

"You could be right," Jim replied soberly. "I did find it strange to be in our train without my partner."

Jessamyn cleared her throat prettily, leaning toward him slightly. "Wallace and I were talking… wouldn't it be better to simply change your profession? I'm sure there are so many memories. And of course the danger!"

"As a matter of fact, that has occurred to me, and I had a conversation with the Englishman, Kirkby, this afternoon. I believe he and I…"

"Kirkby!" White interjected. "What has he to do with anything?"

Jim gazed at the senator. "He has offered me a job with his traveling show in England."

"I thought Ordway…"

Jim shrugged. "Yes, Ordway has approached me. But Europe is more tempting. I have many acquaintances in this country—friends and enemies. Everywhere I go would be a reminder of my friend, and of course some would want to talk about him. Artemus Gordon and I worked together for many years, since early in the war. I feel as though I have lost more than just a friend; I lost a brother. Europe will be fresh faces, new scenery. A chance to come to grips with his… death… and to decide what I really want to do with myself."

"You mustn't act too rashly," Jessamyn urged, her fingers tightening around his. "You would be so far away…" She gazed soulfully at him.

Now Jim smiled. "I thank you both for your concerns. I assure you, I am not acting in a hasty manner. First I have to receive approval of my request for six months of leave. Such a request has to be made formally, with a signature, so I cannot simply send a telegraph message. I've written a letter and will mail it tomorrow. When I leave here, I'll return to Washington to follow up."

"What if the request is refused?" White asked sharply.

Jim frowned, shaking his head slightly. "I haven't thought that far ahead."

"But it's foolish to leave all your friends behind," Jessamyn put in. "I'm sure that Mr. Ordway will be sensitive to your feelings. Your fame is here in this country."

"Which may be a detriment," Jim replied, smiling. "In Europe, I'll be a fresh face. Perhaps they won't expect so much of me." For several minutes now he had been wondering if he heard movement in the next room, which he knew was White's study, connected by the sliding doors at one side of the parlor. Now he was certain he heard footsteps emerging out into the hallway, at least two, one pair heavy, and the other lighter.

Wallace White smiled then. "I have a suspicion, Mr. West, that you are simply being a good businessman."

"Sir?"

"You are playing Kirkby against Ordway. I'm sure you want to remain in this country, and you are wise enough to know that Mr. Ordway will raise the ante if he feels Kirkby is real competition."

Jim shook his head slowly. "That's not it at all, Senator. It's not the money."

"Well, it should be," Jessamyn pouted alongside him, freeing one of her hands finally to touch his shoulder playfully. "Think of all the nice items you could purchase for your favorite lady."

Now he gazed at her directly and smiled ever so slightly. "The ladies of my acquaintance do not seem to require gifts… other than my presence… and my attentions."

Her eyes widened briefly and she had the grace to blush as she caught his meanings. Then she giggled and left go of the other hand. "Oh, Mr. West! Really!" Her gaze remained on his face and took on a dreamy quality as if her imagination was taking hold.

Wallace White cleared his throat loudly. "What I was suggesting, Mr. West," he spoke rather crisply, "is that once more I am offering my services to negotiate a contract with Mr. Ordway. I'm sure he would be amenable to including a share of ownership, and thus of the profits. I'm certain you realize just how successful his show is anyway, and that a percentage…"

Jim looked at him with a bland expression. "That's odd, I understood that Ordway's 'extravaganza' was in deep financial difficulties."

"I certainly don't know where you heard that!" White stiffened. "He…"

The sound of the outside doorknocker resounded loudly and now the senator assumed a not too convincing expression of surprise. "Who could that be? I am not expecting anyone. Jessamyn?"

His wife pulled herself out of her continued reverie. "Oh. Oh, no, dear. No one. I wonder who could be calling?" She was not a very good actress either.

Jim had no doubt who the visitor would be, at least one of them. That Vivian La Belle was at P.T. Ordway's side was a mild surprise. After all, she must have been brought to Arapahoe Creek for a reason. He was inwardly amused to notice the annoyance that flickered over Jessamyn's face as the housekeeper ushered the pair in. Certainly she did not like competition, nor to have it believed she could not do the job herself!

"I do beg your pardon, Senator White," P.T. effused. "I had no idea you had a guest. I was hoping to discuss that legal matter further with you." He smiled. "I did not wish to leave poor lovely Vivian alone at the hotel. Mr. West, you remember my beautiful performer." He seemed not to recall—perhaps deliberately so—that Miss La Belle had been re-introduced to him that afternoon. _She looks quite unhappy_, Jim mused as he nodded toward her. She was lingering slightly behind Ordway's shoulder and though she returned his nod and smiled, the smile did not reach her eyes. She also looked tired.

"Not at all, not at all, Mr. Ordway," White beamed. "You are always welcome here, you know that. Mrs. Caine," he spoke to the housekeeper who had lingered in the doorway, "set the table to include two more guests. Mr. West and I were just discussing the business arrangements of your contract with him, Mr. Ordway. This will be a perfect opportunity for the three of us to nail down the details." He winked toward Jim.

Jim wanted nothing so much as to walk out of there, but he knew that would serve no purpose. The idea was to string the senator and showman along as far as possible, and perhaps get them to reveal more than they intended. The agents still did not have information as to why the pair were working together. Why would White jeopardize his already shaky political career further?

During the meal he let the two men do most of the talking, while he himself responded mildly to Mrs. White's continued flirting and pretended to not be aware that this whole evening had been set up. Vivian also attempted to engage him, usually after Ordway glared at her or made some pointed remark to remind her of her "duty." Clearly her heart was no longer in this, and Jim wished he could talk to her to find out what she knew, if anything.

White and Ordway continued to press Jim to sign with Ordway's show, pointing out the advantages of remaining in the United States as opposed to Europe, and offering what Jim was sure would be unrealistic financial bonuses. He did not mention again that he was aware of the near bankrupt state of Ordway's extravaganza. What could possibly be White's motive for abetting the showman?

Jim attempted to excuse himself when the meal was finished, but Ordway put an iron grip on his arm and steered him into White's study. Jim could have broken that grip easily but chose not to. He sat down on one of the leather chairs and accepted the glass of port, but refused the cigar that was offered him. He also did not even sip the wine, although he pretended to. He had noticed that White spent an inordinate length of time pouring, his back to the other two men, and also that the senator appeared to want to make sure Jim took a specific goblet, picking up one and moving to hand it to Jim rather than carrying two glasses to his guests.

_I might be wrong, but experience has taught me to be cautious. _The port smelled all right, but that was not always anindication of its purity.

"Mr. West," the senator began once he was settled in his own chair, "I am baffled as to why you are resisting Mr. Ordway's overtures. His offer seems to me to be extremely generous, and he certainly has indicated that he's willing to go even further."

"What baffles me," Jim said slowly, "is why you are so interested in getting me to sign on with Ordway?"

"Why… why because I think it is in your best interests!"

"What other reason could there be?" Ordway growled.

"Now, P.T.," White said soothingly, "Mr. West has a right to ask questions. He'd be foolish not to."

Jim thought that was the first time he had heard White address Ordway so familiarly. Previously he had used "Mr. Ordway." "Speaking of which," he said aloud, "Senator, why did you ask for federal assistance when you were surely aware that the charges against Merrill Harkness were baseless?"

White stiffened. "At the time I believed the threat was legitimate. I'm happy if you were able to prove me wrong. I know Harkness is much admired in this community."

"I see," Jim murmured, keeping his eyes steady on the senator and being rewarded when White visibly squirmed, shifting his position.

Ordway appeared to notice as well. "We're not here to talk about that," he snapped.

Jim shifted his gaze. "Oh? And what are we here to talk about, Mr. Ordway? I thought I had been invited to a relaxing evening with the senator and his wife, to help assuage my grief over the death of my friend."

Under those boring green eyes, now Ordway squirmed a bit too. "Well, perhaps," he admitted. "I simply want to point out that I can't remain in Arapaho Creek forever, and I'd like to close this business as soon as possible. You haven't named your terms, Mr. West."

"That's because I have none," Jim said, getting to his feet and putting the glass aside. He did not miss the puzzled alarm in White's eyes. Was he wondering why whatever he put in the wine was not taking effect? "Senator White, thank you for dinner. But I have work to do. I plan to find the man who murdered my partner before I leave this town." He allowed his gaze to focus sharply on Ordway for a long moment.

He then strode to the study door and opened it before either man could stop him, but was aware that both quickly followed him. Jessamyn appeared in the hallway. "Are you leaving so soon, Mr. West?"

"I'm afraid I must, Mrs. White. Thank you for having me."

"Where's Vivian?" Ordway barked.

"She had a severe headache and went back to the hotel," Jessamyn replied, cringing a bit under the showman's angry glare.

Jim took advantage of the moment to head for the outer door, grabbing his hat from the hallstand near the door. "Good night," he called as he exited, pulling the door behind him.

He was not entirely surprised that no one pursued him. He thought he had planted enough ideas to let the two men know of his suspicions. Now to see what they would come up with next!

W*W*W*W*W

A little surprised that Jim would be returning so quickly, Artie opened the hotel room door. His surprise at seeing Vivian La Belle in the hallway was great; so great that for a moment he forgot he had removed most of his Philo Kirkby disguise until he saw how she was staring at him with widened eyes. Recovering, he reached out to catch her arm and pull her inside.

She found her voice first. "You're Mr. Gordon! You're alive?"

"Yes, I'm alive. But it's important that no one else know."

Vivian nodded quickly. "I understand. I won't tell anyone. Why did you pretend to be dead? Oh, you must have been trying to trap Parny."

Artie moved the room's lone chair nearer the bed and she took it while he perched on the bed and quickly told her the truth. He saw the gleam in her eyes grow brighter. "You can't tell anyone, Vivian."

"I know, and I won't, I promise! He and Wally deserve some comeuppance for what they've done."

Artie cocked his head. "How well do you know Wallace White?"

"Oh, not terribly. I just know he's Parny's stepson and that they stole some money from the government together."

"Stepson? Are you sure?"

"Oh yes. I've known P.T. Ordway for nearly a dozen years—for a couple of years before I signed on with his sleazy show—and I met Wally when he was still quite young. In fact, Wally liked me at the time but I'm pretty sure P.T. convinced him he would need a more reputable wife if he was going to get anywhere. And then he goes and marries Jessamyn Lytell!"

"You know who she was? We understood she's the daughter of some businessman…"

"Oh, her daddy is a businessman all right! He owns a couple of the biggest saloons and whorehouses in Saint Louis! Parny was furious when he heard. I guess that part of her background hasn't reached this area yet." She shook her head, smiling, perhaps envisioning the reaction once that tidbit became known among the local voters. "Anyway, so I know that Wallace White is Parny's stepson. Not only that, White isn't his real name. I don't know what his name is, but I know his mama was never married, mostly because his true daddy was hanged for murdering two or three folks before Wally was born."

"You're sure of this, Vivian?"

"Yes, indeed. A lot of it Parny told me one night when he had too much to drink. I don't think even remembers what he said. He told me a lot that night. Likely he woulda killed me by now if he knew what I know."

"You mentioned stealing some money…"

"Yeah. Parny was in real bad shape, about to lose the show. That show means everything to him. He would kill to keep it, as I reckon you've guessed. I'm pretty sure he killed his original partner, fellow named Barney Kidder, even though it looked like an accident at the time. That happened before I ever met him. He never quite confessed that to me, but some things he said…

"Anyway, Parny bragged that Wally was going to help him financially, and it seems he did. That was soon after Wally got elected to the territorial legislature. Wherever he got it, Parny was able to pay off enough of his debts to keep the show, and Wally used some of the money himself—built that fancy house, probably. And maybe used it to impress Jessamyn and her father. I'm thinking he stole it from the treasury somehow. Parny said that Wally was real good with figures and making money disappear."

Artie let out a long, low whistle. "Vivian, I cannot begin to tell you how much help this all is. You may have opened the door that will allow us to take both White and Ordway out of circulation!"

"It just never makes no sense to me why Parny kills men when he's so scared of 'em coming back for him."

"Coming back? You mentioned something about ghosts before…"

"Yeah. I never met no one so scared of ghosts as Parny. He won't never take the show back to Ohio, on account of that's where his partner died. Even so, he always sleeps with a light on, no matter where he is."

"And this partner, you think Ordway murdered him?"

"Made it look like an accident, good enough so that the law believed it. I don't think that's the only man he ever killed, or had killed. He's a hard man. Which, like I say, makes it so strange on account of he's so scared of the ghosts!" She jumped up then. "Parny might be coming back any time. I left the party before he did. I'd better get to my room. You won't tell him I told…"

"No, of course not. We'll each have secrets to keep to ourselves." He glanced toward the bureau where some of his facial adornment was resting.

"I won't say a word. In fact, I'm going to get on that stage tomorrow. No way Parny is going to stop me. I'll yell for the sheriff if I have to. I could tell you more stuff but I got to get to my room!"

She hurried out then before Artie could stop her or try to reassure her that she would be protected. _Well, after all the telegrams we sent seeking information, and it was all right here!_

W*W*W*W*W

Study the past, if you would divine the future.

—Confucius (c. 551-478 BC), Chinese philosopher

Artemus was laying on the bed in the dark, but not sleeping, when he heard the sounds in the hall. He quickly swung off the bed to his feet just as the tap sounded. This time he admitted Jim, and lighted the lamp on the bedside stand. "How'd it go?"

"Interestingly. They were a bit more bold, but still no admissions of guilt. White did apologize for accusing Harkness."

"That was nice of him."

"I believe that an attempt was made to drug me, although I'm unclear about the reasons or what would have happened had I not been cautious."

Artie frowned. "To kidnap you?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't know. Perhaps to just make me groggy enough to put my signature on something. We may never know. I did not drink the port. Not only that, but they sicced both Mrs. White and the lovely Vivian on me."

"Ah." Artie sat down on the bed as Jim took the chair. "I've spoken to Vivian. Twice now actually."

"Yeah?"

"This afternoon when I returned to the hotel, she intercepted me. Said some intriguing things. This evening she came to my door and wanted to talk some more. Just left as a matter of fact."

Jim nodded. "She was behaving strangely, and she departed early—much to Ordway's displeasure."

"She's afraid of Ordway. I'm afraid I got careless and opened the door, thinking it was you, and of course I didn't have my disguise on. However, she's through with Ordway and willing to not only keep our secrets, but helped by telling me quite a bit. Here's the gist of it. First off, she thinks Ordway had something to do with the death of his original partner in the circus. It happened before she met him, he's thrown hints. However, here is the bombshell: White is Ordway's stepson."

The information stunned Jim West. He had thought of all different reasons why the two men might be working together, but not this one. "So the record of marriage that was found for Ordway…"

"Was to White's mother. Vivian said that White's mother never married the father—and the father was hanged for a triple murder before Wallace was born."

"My God. No wonder he wouldn't want it known!"

"She's pretty sure he changed his name from that of his mother's, and of course never used Ordway's. Vivian learned all this from Ordway when he was, as they say, in his cups one night. He revealed that White helped him financially. This was, apparently, a couple of years ago."

Jim frowned. "Where would White get the kind of money Ordway needed? His debts were—and are—extensive. Beyond that, it appears even if White did 'save' him, he fell right back in the hole."

"Exactly. Vivian thought that White embezzled funds from the territorial treasury. So if the missing funds are discovered, both Ordway and the senator would be in deep trouble." Artie gazed at his partner, and saw that the same idea was occurring to Jim. "I'm thinking the senator might have had his hand in the state coffers. Early on in his term he was on a territorial committee that controlled and disbursed certain monies."

"And once White's term expires in a short while, that committee's budgets will be examined by unfriendly eyes. He must know his chances of being reelected are slim to none."

"So Ordway latched onto the idea of having you in his show not only to pay his personal debts, but to be able to allow Wally to slip the funds back into the territorial coffers."

Jim nodded. "No wonder they are desperate!"

"It's certainly something to look into." Artie fell silent a moment, then he looked at his partner. "Jim, remember when you pretended to come back from the dead to disconcert Marius Hammer?" [See _The Night of Paradise Lost._]

"Sure. And it worked. Why?"

"Vivian told me that Ordway's greatest fear is that one of the people he has wronged will come back from the grave to haunt him. He lives in mortal terror of it, in fact."

"You mean he has a conscience?" Jim smiled briefly. "But I think I know what you are getting at. Certainly something to keep in mind. A tidbit of information that could come in handy. Be pretty easy for Artemus Gordon to visit him from the spirit world. "

W*W*W*W*W

Jim rose early the following morning and spent a long while in the varnish car at the telegraph, transmitting the new information learned from Vivian La Belle, and asking that attempts be made to verify any of it. If it could be proven that White pilfered money from the territorial treasury, matters would be greatly simplified. Ordway could possibly be charged as a co-conspirator.

_I doubt it's going to be that easy_, he mused as he shoved the key back into its case disguised as books. _If White has gone this long without being detected, he must have covered his tracks well. Then again, he's worried now about discovery, apparently after he leaves office, so some clues are there. Perhaps they need only be dug into and unearthed. I did not initially believe Ordway was capable of resorting to murder to gain his ends, yet that's what he tried to do._

P.T. Ordway was another problem altogether. According to Vivian, the "extravaganza" was more than a business to him. He had staked his life and reputation on it and continued to fail miserably. He looked upon James West as his salvation, not only to repay debts but to elevate him to the heights he felt he deserved. He was the more dangerous of the pair, Jim was certain. Predicting his next move was difficult, if not impossible.

What was needed now was proof that Ordway—and by association, White—was behind the attempts on Artie's life. Theft of government funds was bad enough, but would result in relatively few years in prison. Attempted murder was far more serious, and if some evidence could be found regarding Ordway's former partner's death…

But that was in the future, Jim decided as he saddled the black horse. First they had to at least sidetrack Ordway's efforts here in Arapaho Creek. Jim knew that even if he left the area today, somehow P.T. Ordway would track him down and continue his pursuit of the man he felt would save his business. And of course, eventually Artie was going to have to come back to life. They needed to nail Ordway before that became necessary.

W*W*W*W*W

Philo Kirkby stood on the porch of the general store enjoying a cigar when he saw Jim West riding into town. So far as Artie knew, P.T. Ordway was currently away from Arapaho Creek. Lyon had seen him riding out fairly early this morning, though not in the direction of White's home. Artie hoped Ordway's errand, whatever it was, would keep him away for a while, at least until after today's stagecoach pulled out. With any luck, Vivian would be long gone by the time he returned and discovered her absence. If he returned...

Artie shook his head slightly with that thought. Ordway would be back. Wherever he had gone this morning, he would be returning. He was not the type of man to give up that easily. Jim had told his partner a great deal of the conversation he had with the Whites and Ordway last night in White's parlor. Neither the lawyer-politician nor the showman was giving up. Jim West was key to Ordway's survival, as well as salvaging his pride; for White it was a matter of recovering the embezzled funds and replacing them before the loss was discovered, perhaps saving his political career and above all, keeping him out of jail.

_Funny, it doesn't seem to have occurred to White to at least outwardly be a good legislator, to assure reelection. Even if he had stolen government money, he would have a better chance to keep it hidden while in office. Instead he had abused his office, ignored his constituents and now had almost no chance to keep his seat._

But they had encountered these types of men before, and probably would find more as they continued to pursue lawbreakers. Both White and Ordway had been confident that they could change Jim's mind and recruit him into the show. Ordway in particular should have known better after his earlier encounters with Jim.

Jim rode down the street, and touched his hat toward "Mr. Kirkby" and then headed to the sheriff's office, where he dismounted and went inside with the lawman. Artie casually crossed the street, entered the hotel, and went straight out the back door. From there he made his way to the rear of the jail, where he rapped on the solid wooden door with the head of his cane. Within a few moments, Lyon let him in.

Jim spoke as Artie entered the front of the building with the sheriff. "Sheriff Lyon was just telling me that Ordway left town earlier."

"Yeah. I'm wondering if he didn't go to wherever his show troupe is camping. I should have asked Vivian more about where that camp is located. She did indicate that a skeleton crew is all that remains. Some of the roughnecks who really have nowhere else to go—except jail."

"Ordway isn't going to be happy when he finds she skipped out," Lyon said.

"True," Jim concurred, "but I don't think he'll waste time pursuing her."

"Not while his eye is on the target," Artie put in. "You, James."

"Yeah. The question is… what's his next move?"

Artie shook his head. "It would be nice if we got word that the embezzling suspicion panned out so we could just arrest White. That might put a halt to the entire thing."

"I wouldn't bet on it," Jim said with a grimace. "I have a notion it would take a lot more than that to stop Ordway."

"I'm afraid you're right," Artemus sighed. "And we can't have him chasing us around the country!"

W*W*W*W*W

The fox is very cunning, but he is more cunning who catches the fox.

—Pedro Calderon de la Barca (1600-1681), Spanish dramatist

Jim remained in town throughout the morning. He visited Wallace White in the senator's office, and tried to give the impression he planned to leave the area within the next day or two, telling White that he had to believe his partner's murderer had moved on. "But I'll find him some day, I promise." He was a little surprised that White did not try to convince him to remain in Arapaho Creek.

He mentioned this to the still disguised Artemus when they met in the Chinese restaurant for the midday meal. Artie was just as puzzled. "Is it possible Ordway has given up? I don't believe he has returned yet. Perhaps he did go back to his troupe and has cleared out."

"I suppose it's possible, but somehow I don't think so. He's up to something. Might be a matter of waiting him out."

"Until he kills Kirkby, you mean?"

Jim grinned. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that, Mr. Kirkby. I'd hate to have to bury you twice!"

Artie shook his head slightly with a grin of his own, then sobered. "I certainly would rather finish it up here. I don't want to have to be watching for Ordway popping up wherever we are, persisting in trying to get your signature on a contract."

"Neither do I, pal. Neither do I."

The meal completed, Jim headed back for the train, telling his partner he would return to fill him in on whatever information had been transmitted from Washington and elsewhere regarding White and Ordway. He knew Artie was eager to become himself again. Carrying out the guise of Philo Kirkby was restricting.

Not only that, but the last couple of messages from Colonel Richmond had contained queries regarding when his agents would be heading back to Washington, or at least ready to take on a new assignment. Their investigation of Harkness was complete and although the attempted murder of Artemus Gordon was important, Jim could not definitively tell their superior that that incident was related to the Harkness investigation in any way. All they had were their suspicions.

About halfway to the train, he saw the wagon tipped into a ditch alongside the road, and the gray-haired man sitting disconsolately in the dirt near it. Jim slowed his horse, gazing around alertly. He saw no one except the man, not even another horse.

"What happened?" he asked as he neared.

The fellow barely glanced up. His clothing revealed he was not the most prosperous of men; the wagon was an old buckboard that looked to be about ready to fall apart. "Damn horse," he grumbled.

Jim dismounted then, holding onto the reins of his black horse. "Ran off?"

"Yeah," the man sighed, now slowly climbing to his feet. "First she shied at a rabbit that ran across the road. I shoulda known better than to put that horse in the traces. Too fractious. Before I could get hold of the reins, I was off the road." He sighed again, looking toward the disabled vehicle. "Then I made the mistake of taking the horse out of the harness, thinking I was going to ride to get help. She was still too het up. Soon's I got her loose, she took off. That way." He pointed down the road the same direction Jim was heading in.

Jim dropped the reins now and moved closer to the roadside ravine to study the situation. After a moment he turned back shaking his head. "I have a notion it will take more than one horse to get that wagon out of there. Look. I have an important errand to do a half dozen miles further on. I will then be returning to Arapaho Creek. If you can wait that long, I'll send someone back from there to help you."

The man shrugged. "I guess that's as good a plan as any. I appreciate any help I can get. You don't happen to have some extra water with you, do you? My water bottle fell out of the wagon and broke."

"Sure," Jim said, turning toward the black horse to reach for the canteen tied to the saddle. The steed suddenly reared its head, eyes rolling. Jim was swinging back to face the man behind him when the pain exploded in his head and he sank in to the depth of the darkest darkness.

W*W*W*W*W

Philo Kirkby checked his pocket watch again, his frown deepening. _It should not be taking this long for Jim to get to the train and back. I need desperately to tell him about the conversation I had with Vivian before she boarded the coach! _Artemus stared down the street toward the direction his partner would be returning from. Over the years, he had often had an innate, unexplainable sense of when Jim was in trouble, and he was having that sensation now. _But Ordway is in town, and so is White._

He had seen the circus owner return a short while after Jim departed. Ordway had dismounted in front of White's office, just as the senator-lawyer emerged. They had talked briefly and went inside. As far as Artemus could ascertain, they were still in that office, nearly three hours later. Ordway had not seen Vivian depart on the coach. Artie and Sheriff Lyon had stood sentry on the street just in case the showman had attempted to stop her, but nothing happened.

_Or are they still in town?_ Ordway's horse was still tethered to the rail in front of the office, but that did not mean the pair had not exited out the back. Artie had not noticed a rear exit to the building; however, one could exist. They had been in the anteroom and White's office. Artie had a vague memory of another door in the anteroom, one that could lead to say, another office or storeroom that had an outside door.

Replacing the watch in his pocket, Artie strode down the street, clutching his cane, entering White's office. The male clerk looked up in surprise and Artie spoke before he could, using his best British accent. "I wish to see Senator White."

The young man glanced behind him, not at the door to White's office but toward the second one. "The… the senator is busy with a client."

"Indeed?" Ignoring the clerk's protests Artie went first to the office door, pushing it open. As he fully expected, it was vacant. He spun on the now white-faced young man. "Busy? Where?"

"He just… he said I should…"

Now Artemus turned to the other door and opened it. Again no surprises. It was a storeroom filled with filing cabinets and crates of unknown items. A door was on the far side. Disregarding the obviously distraught clerk, Artie walked to that door and opened it to reveal a weed and trash-littered lot. He also saw potent evidence that at least one horse had been tethered to a pole just outside the door.

"Young man, where is Senator White?" Artie retained his accent for the moment, glaring at the clerk. "I have important matters to discuss with him."

"I'm… I'm… I don't know, sir. I don't know. He just said… he just said to tell anyone who came that he was busy with a client."

"Mr. Ordway?"

"Yes. He was with the senator. They were… they said…" The clerk swallowed hard.

Artemus decided that the time for the charade was over. He reached into an inside pocket to extract a leather folder which he extended, opened. The clerk's eyes widened. "But you're dead!"

"Not quite," Artemus replied sarcastically. "What's your name?"

"Williams, sir. George Williams."

"Very well, George. I doubt that you have been involved in any of the criminal activities that have been occurring here."

He had thought the clerk's eyes could not widen any further but he was wrong. "Criminal… no, sir! I'm not a criminal! I don't know…"

Artie held up a hand to stop him. "Have you any notion where White and Ordway went?"

"No, not really. I heard Mr. Ordway say that it would be important to move the camp now. But I don't know what camp he meant."

"I think I do," Artie murmured. "George, I want you to stay here and follow Mr. White's orders. Tell anyone who comes in that he's busy—and do not mention my presence. Not to anyone. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Am I in trouble?"

"I don't think so. Not at the moment. And not if you cooperate fully. If either Ordway or White comes back, it is particularly important that you do not tell them I was here, and especially my true identity."

"Yes, sir!" A new glow appeared in Williams' eyes. "I always wanted to be a detective."

Artie smiled and patted the thin shoulder. "Carry this out well, and you just might prove to have the makings."

Artie crossed the street to the sheriff's office but was disappointed to find the lawman absent, a note on his desk stating he had ridden out to check on a rustling report. Artie took the time to sit at the desk and write a rather lengthy explanation, along with instructions. He then hurried to the livery and rented a horse.

W*W*W*W*W

His head was pounding and his mouth was dry. The jolting of the wagon did not help. Jim struggled against his bonds again, and as before, futilely. The ropes that were securing him were well and securely tied. His wrists were behind him, and they were also fastened to a ring embedded in the heavy wall of the wagon. Further ropes bound his boots tightly together. He had already discovered that he could not maneuver enough to release the blade in the sole of his boot and doubted it would be of any avail even if he could. The small knife in the back of his coat was equally unattainable.

He had awakened in the dimness of this enclosed, moving vehicle and although he had no idea of his location, he was pretty sure of the identity of his kidnapper: P.T. Ordway. This was no doubt one of his circus wagons. Where they were heading and Ordway's purpose was anybody's guess.

The memory of how he had been trapped caused stirrings of anger. Not so much because he had been duped but how Ordway had used Jim West's innate courtesy and willingness to help against him. _He knew I would stop to assist that man!_

He leaned his head back against the hard wall, but lifted it almost immediately. The vibrations as the wagon wheels rumbled over a rough surface only caused new throbbing in his head. _Where are we going, and why?_ Had Ordway's desperation finally caused him to lose all reason? Did he think that he could somehow force Jim West to participate in his show?

_If that's the case, P.T. has another think coming!_

Jim had no sense of how far they would have traveled, nor even how much time had elapsed since he had been struck unconscious. Wagons like these moved rather slowly. Others in the train would be more heavily laden with the show's gear, plus they were usually drawn by sturdy but by no means fleet-footed draft horses. Daylight was apparent as the sunlight filtered through cracks in the wagon's walls and under the door at the rear, but he had no sense of whether it was the same day or perhaps the following morning. A window of some sort was at the front, but it was tightly closed, allowing no seepage of light, as well as no view of whoever was handling the reins, or the passing scenery.

The question kept coming back: how did Ordway expect to accomplish anything by this gambit? Surely he must realize he could not force his captive to participate in the exhibition. The thought flashed through Jim's mind that Ordway might have decided to resort to extortion, of demanding ransom money for the captured agent, but he thrust it aside quickly. How could Ordway continue his show, even if he received the ransom? Retaining and succeeding with his "extravaganza" was of utmost important to P.T. Ordway. That obsession was behind the entire business, from the moment in Kansas when he first attempted to interest Jim in signing onto the show.

_Another who believes he is smarter than anyone else, but in his case his failures have exacerbated the situation. I think it's come to the point where he cannot look at another catastrophe. _

Still the puzzle, however, of how could Ordway dream of succeeding by committing a capital crime, kidnapping a government agent? Of course, the showman was yet unaware that he could be charged in the embezzlement of territorial funds, along with his stepson. They were both ignorant, presumably, that Vivian revealed that information to "Mr. Kirkby."

_Ordway might be in a hurry, but he would have no notion that Artie would be waiting for me. Artie will start searching as soon as I fail to return to town._ These wagons should not be difficult to trail. Jim had a notion of what his partner might attempt, but he also suspected that beyond the drivers of his wagons—and Jim was unsure how many wagons were involved—Ordway might have other thugs and roustabouts on his payroll. Traveling shows were often home to some rough men; it was a rough life. Artie would need to enlist some help.

Just as he was wondering about the time of day, the wagon lumbered to a stop. Through the thick walls of the wagon, he heard shouts as men yelled to each other about positioning and chores to be done. Jim waited, expecting Ordway to open the rear door. As the minutes crept by and the commotion outside abated, he wondered. Was it possible Ordway was not with the caravan? Of course that could be the case but somehow he thought not. P.T. Ordway would want to be present with his prize captive. If that was true, why was he not hurrying to crow over his prisoner?

W*W*W*W*W

Artemus rode straight for the train, where he learned from the crew that Jim had not returned. He removed all vestiges of Philo Kirkby's disguise, changing into his own clothes. After picking up a few items from his room and storage compartment in the lab car, he mounted his chestnut horse and headed back toward town, this time at a slower pace, inspecting the ground along the road as he traveled.

He noticed the tracks of wagon wheels that appeared to have gone off the road but did not pay that much attention immediately. Only after he traveled a little bit further and spotted an area where it appeared a number of horses as well as a wagon had entered the road from a field at the side did he turn back and re-inspect the site where the wagon apparently went over the edge.

He was able to follow the wagon's trail relatively easily, for although the road was reasonably well traveled, it appeared that mostly horsemen used it and this wagon was the only one to have traversed it in some time. He decided that the wagon had been deliberately driven off the road and into a ravine. _Or else the driver was drunk!_ Dismounting, Artie carefully walked around the area, and his conclusions grew stronger.

He could see where the vehicle had been taken to the edge of the road where the ravine bordered the route. A slight berm had been built up at some point, possibly by frequent travelers or local residents, that would help a wagon driver to know when he was near the edge. Quite apparently the wagon in question had been taken right to that berm, and shoved over. Artie was all but certain now that the horse had been unhitched and that dismounted men shoved it into the crevice. He could see deeper imprints of the boots of straining men.

From there the scenario was not difficult to figure out. Jim would have stopped to assist someone in distress. He would not have been looking for the signs Artie just found and could have been off guard and easily surprised. Artie was not able to discern Blackjack's prints among the plethora of marks in the road, but he was fairly certain of his conclusions. He saw marks then where the wagon had been hauled out of the ditch further on and determined that the wagon had been turned toward town.

Now… where did they go? Once back onto the road, after a distance the tracks were not as easy to follow, covered by other hoof prints, possibly including those of the riders accompanying the wagon. Ordway's men, Artie had no doubt. They would not have—and did not—go all the way back to town. No major roads crossed this one on the way back to Arapaho Creek. What he had to do was find where they left the road.

He suspected that site would not be far from where the wagon entered it; he was sure they would have exited near the same spot. His surmise was correct as about a hundred yards farther on, he found some broken brush where obviously an attempt had been made to disguise the spot of leaving the road. Pieces of bushes had been thrown over the spot.

As he had informed the sheriff he would do in the note he left on the office desk, Artie created much more evident trail marks, tying a piece of rag he had brought from the train to a nearby tree branch, and then clearing away all the rubble. Once beyond that initial feeble attempt to hide the tracks, it was all pretty clear. A half mile across an open field he found where several wagons had been parked for some time. Artemus had no doubt what those wagons were.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter Four**_

His tongue dropt manna, and could make the worse appear the better reason.

— _Paradise Lost (bk. II, l. 112), _John Milton (1608-1674), English poet, scholar, writer and patriot

The interior of the wagon was completely dark before Jim heard noises at the rear that indicated someone was coming in. He suspected a small porch was there, as on other similar vehicles he had seen. The wagon rocked slightly, indicating a person of some size had mounted the steps there. Thus he was not surprised when the door opened to reveal a lantern-carrying P.T. Ordway.

He had to blink a few times against the brightness of the light, but did not speak. Ordway stood silently as well, looking down at him, smiling. Perhaps a full minute passed before the big man spoke. "I trust you are not too uncomfortable, James." When Jim still did not speak, he went on. "I'm sure you are puzzling why I took this step."

"It seems rather stupid," Jim said then, sarcasm dripping in his tone.

"Not at all, my friend. Not at all. I'm only sorry I did not do it sooner. We could have saved quite a bit of time. But I thought you were more intelligent than I gave you credit for."

Jim's curiosity was piqued despite himself. "How so?"

"You should have had the intelligence to realize that performing in my show was far preferable than the dangerous life you led. You cost your friend his life, I'm sure you realize that."

"I don't exactly view it that way."

"Oh, I am sure you do not. But you will. You will come to understand that Mr. Gordon's death was due to you and you alone. The guilt will eat at you. And you will willingly sign on with my exposition."

"I don't see that happening at all."

"Not now you don't." Now Ordway crouched down with far more agility than Jim would have believed he possessed. "Look around you, James." He held the lantern up so that the rough inside walls were illuminated. "This is your home. This is the only home you are going to have until the day when you sign your name to a lifetime contract with my show. I am going to be your only friend. You will not see sunlight, moonlight, green grass… nothing. I'll be the only one you will speak to. I'll feed you, give you your opportunities to take care of your personal needs, allow you to shave and bathe… all under my guidance and supervision. You won't make a move unless I am watching you."

Jim shook his head slowly. "I don't get you."

Ordway chuckled, now rising to his feet. "I'm your friend, James. The only friend you have. Without me, you'll die. No one else will enter this wagon. If you want food and water, you'll have to ask me for it. Think carefully about how you are going to ask for sustenance, James. That will make a great deal of difference. I'll be back in a few hours."

Without another word, he turned and exited, closing the door. Jim heard the thud of a bar being dropped across the door. He was in utter darkness again. For a long moment, he did not move. Then he leaned back against the wall behind him, a position not much more comfortable than otherwise, but at least different.

_What the devil? He's completely lost his mind! _Those thoughts raced through his mind. Ordway made no sense whatsoever. How did he believe these tactics were going to force his prisoner to not only sign a contract but to honor that contract once freed? He would have to be free to perform the sharpshooting tricks Ordway expected would bring in the audience and the money they would be handing over.

Soberly, Jim considered Ordway's threat regarding food and water. He was already thirsty. He knew that deprivation could affect a man strongly. He remembered the caged man that Dr. Arcularis used in his experiments with mind control. Was that it? Had Ordway somehow learned of Arcularis's work, or the work of the European scientist the doctor quoted?

Ordway had not mentioned bright lights and noise, the methods Arcularis had used to control his subjects, including Jim West. He had come so very close to succeeding there. Only because one small artifact had changed, the bright reflection from Ahkeema's ornament that had interrupted the routine had Jim West been able to free his mind and prevent a horrible tragedy.

Ordway did not know that they were onto his other illegal activities. Jim was unsure whether mentioning it now would do any good. Ordway appeared convinced that whatever he planned to do was going to change everything. He planned to place the responsibility for Artie's "death" on Jim's shoulders and somehow play on the guilt he was sure would be experienced.

Of course, that was not going to work because Artie was not dead. Remembering what he and his partner had talked about, Jim knew he must not reveal that fact to Ordway. Vivian told Artie that Ordway's one, and perhaps only, fear was that those he had wronged might come back from the dead to haunt him. Believing Artemus Gordon dead, Jim reasoned, Ordway was unworried that another government agent would be trailing them soon. Jim knew that P.T. was very wrong on that count. Dead wrong.

W*W*W*W*W

Following the wagons was alternately easy and difficult. The broad wheels of the heavy vehicles generally left a very visible trail, but twice the wagons had gone into the water of a broad and shallow creek and not come out the other side, following the creek bed for some distance. Artemus had no choice but to do the same. Although the passage of heavy wagons through the creek had disturbed the rocks and water plants on the bottom, he had to continually scan both sides of the waterway as he rode slowly until he found their point of exit.

He continued to leave very visible clues for the sheriff and his posse to follow. Artie wished he had had time to go back to Arapaho Creek to ensure that Lyon had returned from town. The note the lawman had left in his office did not give any indication of when he expected to be back. _I'm seeing at least four, maybe a half dozen wagons, along with several riders. Could be up against a dozen men._

As the sun was lowering deeply into the western horizon, the wagons finally joined a road that Artie recognized as one his stagecoach had traveled on when he returned to Arapaho Creek as Philo Kirkby. So they were north of the town, which was the direction Ordway had traveled when he left town early today. Chances were, he went to join his troupe and perhaps arrange to ensnare Jim West. In that he had been successful, apparently.

_But what the devil does he think he's doing? He can't force Jim to sign a contract and expect him to honor it meekly! _Artie did not have any qualms for the moment about his partner's safety. Ordway needed Jim West alive and well to save his traveling show. The question was what Ordway planned to do to achieve his ambition. He constantly remembered what Vivian had told him about the acrobat Ordway brought into his show sometime back and could not help but wonder if the showman planned to use the same tactics on Jim. _He might find himself dealing with an entirely different kettle of fish!_

As darkness fell, Artie began to fret about being unable to follow the trail any further. However, about that time, he caught a whiff of smoke. Campfire smoke. All he needed to do now was follow his nose. The half moon provided light enough to show him a trail that led off the main road, a trail that bore signs of having recently been traveled. The odor of smoke was stronger here.

He dismounted and tied off his horse, going on foot along the trail, slowly and cautiously. When he started to hear faint sounds of voices, his caution increased. He moved off the trail through the surrounding woods, continuing toward the sounds and the scent of smoke. He was rewarded when upon ascending a slight rise he was able to look down on the camp of the wagons.

They were in a circle, with a large fire in the middle. He had been correct concerning the number of men, as he quickly counted eleven, including Gussy Guzman and Art Brewer, all rough looking characters. Some were pretty obviously roustabouts that belonged with the show. No performers were evident, so perhaps Vivian's surmise that they were all deserting in Ordway's absence was correct.

Artie spotted Ordway sitting on a chair on the far side of the fire, smoking a cigar and seemingly at ease. Beside him, on another chair, was Wallace White—not nearly so relaxed. He sat with his elbows on his knees face in his hands. Ordway appeared to be talking to him but White was not responding.

_Where's Jim?_

In a corral on this side of the wagons, just below his position, Artie saw the black horse, still saddled. Quite probably none of these men could get near enough to remove the gear. The best they could do was to pen him up with their own horses. Jim West, however, was not in view. He had to be in one of the wagons, Artie decided. But which one?

He had just decided that it had to be the one right behind Ordway, when the showman pushed himself to his feet, tossed his cigar into the flames, and went to a bucket sitting near the rear platform of that wagon. He filled a tin cup with water and climbed the steps. Artie nodded to himself. _Jim is in that one._

W*W*W*W*W

I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

—_Henry IV, Part I_ (Glendower at III, i), William Shakespeare (1564-1616), English dramatist and poet

Jim lifted his head when he heard the sounds of footsteps and felt the wagon rock slightly. He knew who his visitor would be, and a moment later, P.T. Ordway entered, the lantern in one hand, and a tin cup in the other. He smiled broadly.

"Good evening, James. How are you doing? Would you like a nice drink of water?"

"I would." Jim's voice was raspy with the dryness in his mouth and throat.

"I think you should ask very nicely for it, James."

For a long moment, Jim gazed coldly at his captor. Then he took a breath. "Please. May I have some water."

Ordway chuckled with delight. "Now that's better. Here you go." He leaned down to hold the cup to Jim's mouth, then pulled it back after just a few swallows. "That's enough. We don't want you to be ill, do we? Have you considered what I told you?"

"Not much. I don't know if what you are talking about would work, but I also know you won't get away with it. People will be looking for me."

"Let them look. By the time they find you, you'll be happily telling them that you joined my troupe willingly and eagerly. I'll have your signature on a contract."

Jim shook his head. "No."

"Oh, yes, James. It works. I did it before. Now granted, you are undoubtedly possessed of a stronger will than the wirewalker I put under contract. But it will just take a little longer. The acquaintance that described the procedure to me stated that it is nearly infallible, given enough time. You will sign the contract, James, and you will perform. You could save us both a lot of trouble by signing now. Perhaps leaving the government service will help assuage the grief and guilt you are experiencing over your partner's death."

"I may be grieving, but I am experiencing no guilt. You murdered Gordon, Ordway."

"I arranged for his death, but you were the one who made it necessary. You understand that, James. I know you do. Deep inside you are telling yourself that had you not been so stubborn and resisted my offer, Artemus Gordon would still be alive. You know that."

"No," Jim replied, and looked away. He hoped that Ordway read his behavior as beginning to suffer a doubt.

Apparently that was the case, for Ordway laughed softly. "Yes, you were responsible, James. You'll have that on your conscience for the rest of your life. Imagine what your colleagues will be thinking once they learn the story. They will label you a murderer."

"No!" Now Jim turned and stared at Ordway. "That's not true!" He affected an expression of horror.

"I'll leave you to your thoughts, James. If you are a good lad, I may bring you breakfast in the morning. I imagine you'll be pretty hungry by then. Perhaps you want to rehearse how you will politely request your meal."

Laughing, Ordway exited. He blew out the lantern and put it on the platform before placing the bar over the door. He was still laughing when he resumed his seat beside his stepson. "This may not be as difficult as I imagined."

White lowered his hands for the first time in a long while. "What do you mean?"

"Sometimes friendship between two people can be used against them. West is deeply sorrowed over his partner's death. Suggesting that he was at fault is digging a painful hole in his consciousness. He can't help but realize that that part is true."

"You killed Gordon," White snapped. "Or caused him to be killed."

"I know that." P.T. Ordway glanced toward the darkness beyond the campfire. The men were lounging around the fire, a couple dozing, several in a half-hearted poker game, others simply staring into the fire. He had enough men to protect him against a posse. He knew, however, that a hundred men could not protect him from… whatever else might be out there.

Just as that worrisome thought flitted through his mind, a strange sound emanated from the dark woods beyond. One of the men jumped to his feet, others turned and stared. "What the hell was that?" one asked.

"Coyote," another offered.

"I ain't never heard a coyote that sounded like that!" a third proclaimed nervously.

"What was that?" Wallace White looked at his stepfather.

Ordway quickly shook his head. "Like the man said, coyote. Has to be. Coyote, or wolf maybe."

"Hasn't been any wolves in this region for a long while," White replied, staring again into the darkness. "Something is there!" he pointed.

P.T. got to his feet, eyes straining into the darkness. "I didn't see anything."

"I did!" Gussy exclaimed. "Something white. Right there!"

"Then go see what it was!" Ordway commanded.

Guzman looked around. "Not me. I ain't chasin' no ha'nt at this time o' night!"

"I heard there's ghosts of Indians 'round here," another man offered. "Fellow I knew in Bozeman said he saw one. Said he ain't never comin' back to this part of Wyoming ever again."

"Don't be ridiculous!" P.T. Ordway growled as he reached inside his coat for a flask, which he uncapped and took a long drink. "Don't be ridiculous!"

"My God! Look!" Art Brewer was on his feet and pointing. "Look! There it is!"

Ordway swung around, the flask falling to the ground. "What? What did you see?"

Brewer swallowed hard. "Didn't ya see it? Didn't ya?"

Several murmured in the negative, even as their gazes inspected the darkness that surrounding them.

"What did you see?" Ordway demanded again.

Brewer was plainly shaken, his complexion pale even in the firelight. "I seen a man. And he… he looked like… he was all white and it was…" He could not seem to get the words out.

"Who did he look like?" Now Wallace White was interested.

Brewer again swallowed and his voice was hoarse. "He looked like that Gordon fellow! Only he was all white faced and his clothes looked like… looked like… he just come out of the grave!"

W*W*W*W*W

Midnight hags,

By force of potent spells, of bloody characters,

And conjurations horrible to hear,

Call fiends and spectres from the yawning deep,

And set the ministers of hell at work.

— _Jane Shore _(act IV, sc. I, l. 240), Nicolas Rowe (1674-1718), English dramatis, writer & poet

Artemus crept back into the darkness of the woods, well out of the firelight, dim as it was. He had accomplished his purpose. He knew from experience that men like those working for Ordway's troupe were often superstitious, as were many show people, whether performers or those behind the scenes. His intent had been to plant the seed of fear in P.T. Ordway's mind, and from what he had been able to see that had been done. Even if Ordway himself had not seen the "spirit," he had been told about it. Perhaps that scenario was even better. From what Viv said, Artie suspected Ordway's imagination was quite strong.

Upon gaining his horse, he mounted and rode into the fields on the opposite side of the road, until he came to another clump of trees and brush, where he again dismounted. He built a very small fire and prepared a pot of coffee. While it was brewing, he removed the ragged garments he had thrown over his regular clothing, and wiped up most of the white face paint he had applied. On the next foray, he did not want to be seen, as a ghost or otherwise.

After relaxing for a while and enjoying a cup of the hot coffee against the cool of the night, he rose again. This time he left the chestnut behind and walked the distance to the Ordway camp site, circling widely until he came up on the far side, not an easy task he found, having to cross a fairly wide stream at one point and negotiate around a large clump of berry briers in another.

He found a vantage point that allowed him to see that the fire had been allowed to burn down. Several men sprawled in blankets near it. Others, Artie knew, would be in the wagons sleeping. No doubt Ordway and White were in one; perhaps the rather large one that was parked next to the wagon in which Artie was certain Jim was imprisoned.

_Only one way to find out for certain_, he reasoned, and crept up alongside that smaller wagon. Taking out his pistol, he used the muzzle to tap against the side then waited. Within a few seconds he heard a couple of thumps from inside. Satisfied, he began to tap again. After a few minutes, he paused and again heard the thumps.

For some reason, Jim was unable to reply in code, but at least he was acknowledging receipt of the message. Artie knew his partner would carry out his request without question. It had occurred to Artemus to try to enter the wagon and free Jim, but a better plan occurred to him. They needed to get Ordway and White, and with so many men around them, that would not be possible at this moment. Artie was not counting on the posse now; at least not until morning. That made it necessary to cause as many of those men as possible to desert.

W*W*W*W*W

The stampede of our self-possession.

—Antoine de Rivarol, Comte de Rivarol (1753-1801), French journalist, critic, writer and epigrammatist

Jim smiled in the darkness as he waited, counting off the seconds. Artie had asked for ten minutes to get himself completely clear. Jim had not been surprised that his partner was nearby. He had expected it. He also was not astonished at the plan Artie outlined in the message he tapped against the wagon.

Ordway had come into the wagon again, even after saying he would not return until morning. He was plainly shaken, and seemed almost to be surprised to see his prisoner still bound up in the wagon. Jim knew that Ordway had actually hoped to see he had escaped and was responsible for whatever had shaken him. Jim had suspected, when he heard shouts outside the wagon, what was going on. They had not discussed the "haunting" idea extensively, but Artie would not hesitate to carry it off if he thought it would help the situation. Ordway's visit pretty much confirmed those ideas, and now Artie's message sealed it. Artie was taking advantage of Ordway's fear of the dead returning for vengeance.

Satisfied that at least ten minutes had elapsed, Jim began to shout. "Ordway! Ordway!"

He had to shout for several minutes before footsteps sounded on the outside platform. The thick walls of the wagon would have muffled the sounds of his voice. But the door opened, and Ordway was there in his dressing gown, holding the lantern. "What the devil do you want?" He left the door open behind him this time.

"He was here!" Jim gasped. "He was here! He said it was my fault!"

Ordway's eyes swiveled as he stared into the gloom of the wagon. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, though Jim suspected the tone of his voice was not quite as firm as Ordway hoped it would be.

"Artemus! My partner! He was here!" Jim stopped, swallowed hard, and shook his head. "I never saw a ghost before. Listen, get me out of here!" He tried to give the appearance of terror.

"Did he… did he say anything?"

Jim nodded vigorously. He was unsure whether he was doing an extraordinarily good job of acting or Ordway's state of mind simply saw what he wanted to see. "He said it was my fault! Just like you said. And he said he was going to get those responsible! Ordway, you have to let me loose!"

Instead of responding, the big man simply whirled and went out the door, slamming it behind him. Jim heard the bar drop into place. He leaned back with a sigh. The rest was up to Artie.

W*W*W*W*W

Everyone was awake, roused by Jim's shouting and Ordway's lack of caution in responding to those shouts, demanding to know what had happened. Wallace White was among them. P.T. Ordway was beginning to regret that he had insisted his stepson come with him. His idea had been that Wally would thus share part of the blame for kidnapping a federal agent. P.T. had not liked how both Wally and his wife were beginning to show signs of bad nerves in this whole affair. Jessamyn had certainly not done her part in seducing West. Despite her beauty, P.T. had always felt that Wally had chosen badly when he married.

Although Wally had revealed no qualms when he pilfered the state money—and he was quite good at that, setting up fake purchasing accounts that had thus far gone undetected—the younger man had begun to reveal his true colors upon learning about the death of West's partner. He wanted no part of murder, even when P.T. explained it had been necessary to weaken West's position. Wally could not understand how Gordon's death would change anything, not even when his stepfather explained how it would cause West to want to get away from anything that bore reminders of his friend, especially his job.

_Damn that Kirkby!_

The Englishman's unexpected appearance had snarled everything. P.T. Ordway had been certain he had James West exactly where he wanted him prior to Kirkby's sudden appearance. He had been very tempted to have Kirkby killed as well, but common sense prevailed. He was aware that even though no suspicion fell on him for Gordon's death that would not be the case if Kirkby died. He had attempted to think of a way to arrange an accident but the opportunity had not presented itself.

So the only thing left had been to kidnap West and use the same methods that had worked with the wirewalker. Ordway knew that James West had a stronger will than that fellow had had. But he had confidence that sooner or later, the young sharpshooter would lose that will. The alcoholic doctor who had told him of the treatment said that he had proof that no one could withstand the battering the mind and nerves took in such an environment. Even James West would bend and break.

Ordway stared into the rekindled fire, oblivious to the excited conversations going on around him, ignoring questions. _It's my old ma's fault_, he told himself. His highly superstitious mother had always talked about ghosts and banshees, curses and witches, brought with her from the old country. Although he had scoffed, especially as he grew older, the ideas had been always in the back of his mind. They surfaced when he committed his first murder, long, long ago while working in New York. For a long time thereafter he had looked over his shoulder, certain that the specter of Henrietta Wollers was creeping up behind him.

They surfaced again when he arranged to have his partner in this show experience a fatal accident. He had had dreams about old Barney, and still did. However, those latent fears had not stopped him from doing whatever was necessary to attain his wishes. Now however…

P.T. looked back at the wagon behind him. West was not a man to be easily spooked, yet he had been very shaken. Something had been there, P.T. was absolutely certain. Brewer had seen something as well. Reluctantly, P.T. allowed his gaze to scan the dark woods that surrounded the encampment, half fearing he might see something, but also half hoping he would.

He jumped when something touched his arm, and looked at his stepson. "What the hell do you want?" he snarled; he knew he had revealed his fear and it angered him.

"P.T., we have to get out of here!"

"Where do you propose we go?"

"I don't know. Maybe if we keep moving…"

"So we can outrun a ghost? There's no such things, Wally! No ghosts. Believe me. No ghosts!" It did not occur to P.T. Ordway that he was protesting too strongly.

"What was West yelling about?"

"He was thirsty."

"That ain't so!" Gussy strode up. "I was outside the wagon. I heard what he was saying. He saw Gordon's ghost in there! I heard him! He said Gordon was coming back after us!" The burly man's eyes were wide in the firelight, perspiration glistening on his forehead.

Another man, one of the roustabouts moved up. "I'm getting' out of here. I ain't stickin' around to be killed by no spirit. 'Specially 'cause I didn't have nothin' to do with him dyin'!"

"Now you listen to me!" Ordway roared. "No one is leaving! No one! There's no ghosts! West was lying. He had to be. There's no ghosts!"

"There he is!" The shriek came from the other side of the fire and everyone turned in the direction that man was pointing.

Off in the distance, beyond the last wagon, a white shape was seen, ethereal in the faint moonlight, seeming to float off the ground. Two of the men pulled their weapons and fired at it, to no avail. The shape remained for a few seconds longer, then seemed to melt away.

"I'm getting' out of here," a man croaked, and several others concurred. They started gathering up their bedrolls and saddles, or moving to hitch horses to the wagons. Rallying himself after his initial shock at the vision, Ordway shouted commands and epithets to no avail. He was particularly enraged to realize that his stepson was among those beginning to pack his belongings in the wagon they had been sharing. He charged up the steps and entered the wagon.

W*W*W*W*W

Throwing aside the gauzy cloth sprinkled with a phosphorescent powder that he had waved on the end of a stick to create the "haunt," Artie had raced around the wagons. Because of the commotion, no one noticed the shadowy figure that mounted the steps to the prison wagon. He moved swiftly, entering and pulling the door shut behind him again. He quickly lit the candle he had brought with him, and produced a knife with which he sliced his partner's bonds.

"Sorry I didn't come in to get you sooner, but I thought we'd have a better chance if things were in disarray."

Jim climbed to his feet, holding onto the side of the wall for a moment as he regained his bearings and worked out the stiffness in his muscles. "That's all right. Sounds like things are moving well."

"We should have only P.T. and White to deal with soon. Ready?"

Artie was careful to pick up all the cut ropes and take them with him as they slipped out the door, still undetected. He led the way back into the brush, where he now handed Jim the spare gun he had secreted with some belongings there. They crouched and watched the scene in the encampment. Ordway had emerged from his own wagon and was now attempting to stop his men from deserting, to no avail. Even waving a gun at them did not deter the fleeing men.

"I think my ghost needs to make one more appearance," Artie whispered. "We need an out and out confession."

"Be careful. He's got that gun in his hand now."

"I'll count on you to take care of that, pal." Patting Jim's shoulder, Artie departed.

Wallace White emerged from the wagon, carrying his carpetbag. "P.T.," he called. "We need to get out of here too. Come on."

The older man's shoulders sagged as he watched the last of his men pulling out, all of the roustabouts loaded into one wagon as that was all they'd managed to hitch up in their haste. "Yeah," he sighed. "At least I still have West. We can put him in this wagon and I'll drive. Go get him while I hitch up. You have your gun?"

White put the bag down and produced a small pistol from inside his coat. He was relieved that his stepfather had not argued further. P.T. could be extremely strong-minded. Nothing Wallace could say would convince him that the state senator should remain in Arapaho Springs, to cover their tracks if nothing else. No, P.T. wanted him along. At least he had not insisted on Jessamyn accompanying them. Wally knew that P.T. never approved of Jessamyn.

He climbed up onto the rear porch of the car, lit the lantern sitting there, and moved the bar to open the door and step inside. There he stopped, staring, entirely unclear of what he was, or was not seeing. Finally he spun back and stepped onto the platform. "P.T.! He's gone! West is gone!"

Ordway came puffing over to the wagon. "What are you talking about?"

"He's gone! See for yourself!"

P.T. climbed the steps, grabbing the lantern, and peered inside. "That's impossible!" He continued to hold the lantern high, staring about the empty vehicle as though he might find his prisoner.

White moved up alongside him. "Even the rope is gone. It's like he just—vanished. Do you—do you think it was… Gordon's ghost?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Ordway snapped, or tried to snap. His voice came out rather hoarsely due to the tightness fear was causing in his throat. He knew what Wally meant. If someone had crept in here and freed West, why was the rope gone? Why were not the cut bindings on the floor of the wagon? "Let's go," he said, turning swiftly toward the door and nearly knocking his stepson over in the process.

"Where are we going?" White asked anxiously as he followed.

"Away from here!" Ordway was striding across the nearly deserted compound toward the makeshift corral where the remaining horses were waiting.

"Can you run away from a ghost? Won't he follow you?"

The older man stopped and spun around, rage on his countenance. "Don't talk like that! Don't ever talk like that!" Terror lurked behind the fury in his eyes.

White caught up with his stepfather. "But where will you—we go? I can't leave Jessamyn behind…"

"Forget about that tramp. We have to get away from here quickly."

They passed through the stationary wagons to the corral. Wallace White immediately noticed how the horses were milling about the makeshift corral. The black horse that belonged to West seemed particularly agitated. "What's wrong with them?"

"How should I know? Get in there and bring the two white-footed ones over while I get the harnesses." When White hesitated, Ordway smacked him on the shoulder. "Do it!"

White ducked under the heavy rope that formed the containment, his own temper starting to boil. _He's treating me like a kid, like he did back in New York. _White knew he had always been afraid of his stepfather. It had been that fear that drove him to change his name and start a new life, although he soon found himself not only reverting to bad habits but also did not evade P.T. Ordway for long. They had both needed money, P.T. for his show, Wallace White to repay gambling debts and to support his lifestyle. Wallace had been certain he could win back enough to repay the treasury before it was missed…

A movement at the edge of his vision caused him to turn his head. Wallace White froze, gaping at the seemingly glowing form that was at the far side of the corral. He recognized the pale face with the sunken dark eyes. He opened his mouth to yell, but nothing came out but a croak. Trying again, he managed to squeak a little louder. "Pa! Pa!"

P.T. Ordway cursed as he heard his stepson's call. _What's the matter now? Can't he handle a couple of horses?_ He went to the still open door of the wagon in which all the tack had been stored for the night. There he froze, one foot out on the platform, the other still inside. The world seemed to rock beneath him. _No! It can't be! Can't be!_

Yet he knew it was. Artemus Gordon, or his specter, stood at the corral's perimeter, staring balefully toward the wagons. P.T. fumbled for the pistol he had stuck in his jacket pocket, but in pulling it out, his hands were shaking so much it flipped from his hand and onto the ground below.

"Wally! Wally! Get your gun! Shoot him!"

Wallace White could not help but turn a horrified gaze toward the wagon. "You can't shoot a ghost, Pa!" Unconsciously, he had reverted to a childhood usage when addressing his stepfather.

Ordway scrambled down from the wagon and searched frantically for the fallen weapon. He had left his lantern sitting inside the wagon and just now he could not see a thing.

"He's coming! He's coming!" White shrieked, fleeing toward the opposite end of the corral.

Ordway got to his feet, turning to face the apparition. He did not want to, but his limbs would not obey his true wish to follow Wallace. They seemed to have turned to stone. In horror, he stared as the whitened form moved slowly around the corral. "Go away! Go away!" he managed to yell.

The voice was hollow, as if coming from the depths of Hades. One arm raised, a finger pointing relentlessly. "You killed me, Ordway! You killed me!"

"No, no, no! Not me! I mean—I just told Gussy to scare you. That's all, just to scare you. It was Guzman who did it. Not me! Not me! You have to leave me alone!"

"We'll never leave you alone!" the ghost intoned, pausing some twenty feet away. Artie knew he had better not get too close. Even in the darkness, the disguise might not hold up.

"We? What do you mean, we?"

"The others you have harmed over the years. Your partner… the tight wire walker… the man you stole…"

"No! No! It's not true! I didn't mean to harm old Frank. And Lorenzo killed himself. If Frank had just given me the money when I asked him, it wouldn't have happened!"

Artie had thrown the last in for effect, recalling some of what Vivian had told him about what she had learned over time from Ordway. He had a number of skeletons in his closet. Beyond Ordway, he could see that Jim had come up to White and was now holding a gun on him, undoubtedly commanding him to be quiet.

"And Jim West," Artie continued in the same hollow tone. "What have you done with him?"

"West is alive. I mean, I think he is. I thought maybe you got him. I wasn't going to hurt him. Not right away anyway. Not so long as he came around to my way of thinking." Ordway was wringing his hands now. "Go away, please go away. Don't let those others come. I'm sorry for what I did. I'm sorry! You've got to believe that!"

"Being sorry doesn't make us any more alive," Artie replied in a normal tone, reaching under the ragged garments he had donned to pull out his pistol. "Of course, I think this gun will work even in a ghost's hand."

For a long moment, Ordway simply stared at him, both mouth and eyes wide open. "You… you're not dead!"

"Not very," Artie replied wryly. "No thanks to you and Guzman. I know he left, but he won't be too hard to find. Jim! Everything in hand?"

"Perfectly so," Jim called back, waving his pistol to urge White to head for the other two.

Ordway was still stunned. "How… how… they buried you!"

"Rocks," Jim replied as he neared. "And a cooperative undertaker and doctor. We thought it a good idea to let you think your plan was succeeding. At the time, we did not understand why you wanted Mr. Gordon dead. You soon revealed yourself."

"I told you!" White stormed. "I told you, P.T.! All you ever think about is killing to get your way!"

"And you boxed yourself in," Artie went on, "because you could not then kill dear Mr. Kirkby without calling more attention to yourself and your motives."

"He was stepping in my territory!" Ordway raged, beginning to regain his senses. And then he peered at Artie. "You…"

"I say, old chap," Artie spoke in Kirkby's tone and accent. "Have you never heard of Kirkby, Pratt and Parsley, finest traveling show in all of Great Britain!"

"You'll never prove anything," Ordway growled then.

"Don't bet on it," Jim snapped. "You kidnapped me. You pretty much confessed to me in the wagon, and again to the 'ghost.' I think our testimony will hold up in court. Not to mention the territory is now looking into White's embezzlement."

"He made me do it!" White chimed in, desperation in his voice and face. "He made me do it! I didn't want to…!"

"Shut up, Wally!"

"Artie," Jim said, "I'll hitch up one of the wagons."

"And I'll keep our 'guests' company," Artie nodded.

Jim had just finished with the lead wagon, when they heard horses approaching. Both agents waited, wary, but relaxed when the saw the star glinting on the jacket of the man in the lead of the dozen or so men.

"Better late than never," Artie grinned as he waved to the posse. After explaining the situation to Lyon, they turned the prisoners over to him, and headed back to the train. Jim needed some food as well as rest, and they also wanted to send some telegraph messages to try to apprehend, in particular, Guzman and Brewer.

**Epilog**

Late the following morning as they prepared to return to Arapaho Creek to discuss the prisoners' fate with the sheriff, Artie noticed his partner's thoughtful silence, and asked him what was on his mind.

Jim looked around after fastening his gun belt around his lean hips. "I keep thinking about what Ordway planned to do, Artie. He seemed so sure that he could cause me to change all my thinking, to come to trust and rely on him, simply by keeping me prisoner and, as he said, being my only friend. Do you think it could have worked?"

Artie grimaced. "Certainly different methods than Arcularis used. But I have heard of something similar. I mean, think of Indian captives. Quite often those captives, when 'rescued,' wanted to stay with their captors. They had been assimilated into the tribe, perhaps by methods close to what Ordway used. And Vivian said he was successful with the wire walker."

"Except that man eventually killed himself."

"Yes. Perhaps out of desperation, knowing he did not have the will to leave Ordway, yet hating his existence. I don't know, Jim. You are certainly not weak-willed or weak-minded. It might have taken longer but… I just don't know. Isolated from all other human contact, completely dependent on one person… who knows?"

The clatter of the telegraph key interrupted. Artie was nearest so he sat down to respond and record the message, lifting his gaze to his partner as he finished. "Well, that's good."

Jim nodded. "Puts a fast closure on the business." The key had told them that both Gussy Guzman and Art Brewer had been picked up near Sheridan, apparently on their way to Canada.

"I hope Vivian's testimony is not required. I shouldn't think so. But she deserves a new chance. Ordway did not… well, attempt to wash her brain of its previous conceptions, but over the years her fear of him kept her tied to the show."

Jim smiled slightly. "I think she'd be an attractive woman if she dressed—and acted—her age. Who knows. She might even meet someone and start a new life."

"Stranger things have happened, James. Shall we go? We have a lot of work to do before we leave Arapaho Creek."

"Not the least of which is deciding what to do about Jessamyn," Jim put in as he shrugged into his jacket. "Obviously she had some complicity in the whole business, but how much? We may have to decide who to believe, White or Ordway when it comes to her participation."

"Don't know about you," Artie said as they headed for the stable car, "but I'm a little bit inclined to believe White. He seems to be genuinely fond of her, and I wonder if Ordway didn't put her up to the seduction business where you are concerned."

"In any case, let's get it done. I want to shake the dust of Arapaho Creek off my boots!"

**THE END**


End file.
